


Tumblr shorts

by 7iris



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-02-18 05:03:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 44
Words: 61,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2336264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7iris/pseuds/7iris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlets from tumblr. Pairings/prompts are in the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2336264/navigate">chapter titles</a> if you're looking for something in particular.</p>
<p>Newest: <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2336264/chapters/13404715">Sid/Flower/Lovejoy, stick control</a>; <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2336264/chapters/13404892">Eichel/McDavid, vampire AU</a>; <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2336264/chapters/13405225">Ekblad/Mitchells, a/b/o AU</a>; <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2336264/chapters/13405366">Carts/Richie, Sentinel AU</a>; <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2336264/chapters/15658453">Nicky/Ovi, spy AU</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sid/Geno - send nudes

**Author's Note:**

> These are ficlets that are too short (most less than 1K) and/or too handwave-y to go up by themselves. Longer, more coherent things will still be posted separately.
> 
> ETA: ficlets involving Patrick Kane have been removed from this collection. You can still find them on my tumblr under the "[patrick kane for ts](http://7iris.tumblr.com/tagged/patrick-kane-for-ts)" tag, if you are so inclined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A copy of this was posted here earlier by someone else without my permission; this replaces that version.

It’s Ovi’s idea first, obviously.

He and Geno are out partying with Team Russia after Worlds. Geno ducks aside to check his phone, reply to Sid’s _congratulations!_ text.

Ovi crashes into him and yanks the phone out of his hand.

"Oh, you fucker!" Geno yelps and tries to grab it back. Ovi fends him off with one hand, typing out a message with his thumb.

Geno gets it back in time to see the sent text: _send nudes_.

Geno punches Ovi in the arm. Hard.

"Quit pining over your North American love muffin and come drink with us," Ovi says.

_Love muffin?_ Geno mouths to himself. There’s no response from Sid, so Geno lets it go, lets Ovi drag back him back to the rest of the team.

*

When he wakes up in the morning, he’s still kind of drunk. There’s a text from Sid.

_??_

Geno groans and buries his face in the pillow. Then he calls Sid.

"Sorry," he croaks. "Sanja."

Sid snorts. “So, you don’t want nudes?”

Geno’s breath catches, the idea suddenly bright and vivid in his mind.

Sid hears it. “Really?” he says, and he sounds curious, thoughtful.

Geno shrugs. “Miss you,” he says.

It’s still new, this thing between them. They’d made all their summer plans apart, the way they always do, and Geno is starting to regret it a little now.

"Yeah," Sid says. "Me, too."

*

The first picture Sid sends him makes him burst out laughing. Sid’s shirtless, holding his phone out at arms’ length. The lighting isn’t great, so you can’t even see the definition in Sid’s shoulders and pecs, and his expression is deeply skeptical.

_You’re going to delete this, right?_ Sid texts a beat later.

_Yes_ , Geno sends. _Too ugly to keep._

_Hey!_ Sid says, and Geno can practically hear the squawk.

It’s okay — Geno loves the fact that he tried. He doesn’t need a picture of Sid’s chest to jerk off to, his memory works just fine.

*

Sid keeps trying. They’re — they’re not great. He takes one in front of the bathroom mirror, his hand cupped over his cock and balls. The fluorescent light washes everything out and he’s frowning in concentration at his phone. It’s possibly the least sexy Sid has ever looked to him, and that includes all the times Geno has seen him after practice in his ratty jockstrap.

Some of them are out of focus, or taken at a weird angle, or include the corner of Sid’s thumb. Sid always looks dubious, like he knows he’s not doing this right, and isn’t even sure he wants to be doing it right.

They all give Geno a warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest. Even if he deletes them almost immediately.

*

_Happy birthday_ , Geno sends, when he knows Sid is still asleep.

His phone buzzes a few hours later. He’s ready to laugh when he opens the message, but the picture makes something twist sharply in his chest.

Sid’s in bed, lying on his side, naked to the waist. He’s smiling at the camera, soft and sleepy. His hair is mussed and the morning sunshine lies exactly right over his smooth skin.

_Wish you were here_ , the text says.

Geno’s thumb hovers over the picture for a long moment.

_Yes_ , he says finally. _Me too._


	2. Jamie/Tyler - pinning the other against a wall

Tyler’s been saying all the right things about how making it to the playoffs is their main goal, how everything after that is just a bonus, but losing in the first round still stings like fuck. And to lose it like that, up 4-2 until the last couple of minutes…Tyler’s stomach churns, frustration and anger and disappointment seething like acid in his gut.

Boston won their series yesterday, too, for that extra salt in the wound.

When it’s all over, when the media is done with them, and all the locker room speeches are over, they go home. In the elevator, Tyler sees Jordie and Jamie exchange a glance over his head. He’s not surprised when Jamie stays on with him instead of getting off with Jordie.

Jamie follows Tyler into his apartment. “Segs,” he starts, and it’s his Captain-voice, his I’m-a-responsible-adult voice, and Tyler can’t take that shit right now.

"Look, I know you guys are satisfied with getting this far, but this is shortest post-season I’ve ever had, so I’m going to need a little extra time to get over it." Tyler knows it’s mean and petty, but he doesn’t care.

Jamie inhales sharply, and it gives Tyler a vicious little twist of satisfaction.

Then Jamie grabs his shoulder and slams him up against the wall. “You think we’re _satisfied_ with this?” he snarls. “You think we don’t want the fucking Cup as much as you?”

Tyler’s heartbeat jumps. All the anger and frustration that Jamie’s been swallowing down in front of the media, in front of his team, is suddenly visible. Tyler can feel it in Jamie’s hands on his shoulders, in the vibrating tension in Jamie’s muscles as he looms over him. He feels small, pinned under Jamie’s bulk, and it sends a flash of heat through him.

"And what the fuck is this ‘you guys’ shit?" Jamie says. "Like you’re not part of this team? You think you’re special?"

Tyler smirks at him, but before he can say anything, Jamie adds, “Because Boston made it out of the first round without you.”

Tyler forgets, sometimes, that Jamie has his own mean streak, that fighter’s instinct for vulnerable spots.

They stare at each other, breathing fast, and Tyler thinks fuck it and grabs Jamie’s hips, pulls him in close.

Jamie’s eyes widen. He’s not hard, but Tyler thinks maybe he could get there.

"C’mon, the season’s over," Tyler says, hoping he’s been reading Jamie right this whole season. "It doesn’t matter if we ruin our chemistry now."

Jamie hesitates, and for second, Tyler thinks this is just going to be one more thing he fucks up this year. Then Jamie kisses him. It feels more like a punch than a kiss, all pressure and teeth and the taste of blood. It’s perfect. Tyler opens his mouth and kisses back.

Jamie makes a fierce sound against Tyler’s mouth. He shifts his weight, pushes his thigh between Tyler’s legs. Tyler grinds his dick against Jamie, almost hard enough to hurt. He wants to burn all this rage and disappointment out of himself.

Jamie’s hands are going to leave bruises on his shoulders. His mouth feels swollen and sensitive already. “Jamie, Jamie—”

"Yeah," Jamie says. He fumbles with Tyler’s zipper, wraps one big hand around Tyler’s cock.

It’s rough and too dry and Tyler whines in the back of his throat, pushing up into his grip. Jamie drops his head to press his mouth against the side of Tyler’s throat, suck a bruise into Tyler’s skin. Tyler’s breathing in fast, shallow gasps, so wound up he’s shaking. He needs, he needs—

Jamie sinks his teeth into Tyler’s shoulder, a dull, hot flare of pain, rubs his thumb over the slick head of Tyler’s cock, and Tyler comes.

"Yeah," Jamie says again, low and satisfied. He strokes Tyler through it, until Tyler twitches away, too sensitive. The blinding rush of orgasm fades, leaves him warm and boneless.

Jamie’s completely hard now against Tyler’s hip. He lets go of Tyler’s cock, and on impulse, Tyler catches his wrist, lifts it to his mouth. He licks his own come off of Jamie’s fingers.

Jamie’s mouth drops open and his hips stutter against Tyler. Tyler licks his lips and nudges Jamie back a step.

Jamie goes, and Tyler drops to his knees in front of him.

"Fuck," Jamie breathes. "Tyler—"

"Shut up," Tyler says. He pulls Jamie’s dick out. He doesn’t waste time fooling around, just slides Jamie’s dick into his mouth.

Jamie exhales in a rush. Tyler sucks him off fast and sloppy, mouth already aching around the stretch of his cock.

Jamie’s hand ghosts over his head and Tyler looks up, gives him a smirk. He lets his teeth catch just a little on the next bob of his head, just so Jamie hisses and clenches his hand in Tyler’s hair, pushes his dick deeper into Tyler’s mouth.

Tyler closes his eyes and takes it, lets Jamie fuck his mouth.

"Tyler," Jamie says hoarsely.

Tyler opens his eyes and looks up at Jamie, Jamie’s cock heavy on his tongue. Jamie shudders and pulls Tyler off his dick, gives himself a couple of rough strokes. Then he’s coming, spilling over his hand and Tyler’s cheek.

Tyler blinks. Jamie lets out a sound that’s almost a laugh, and then his knees fold up and he drops to the floor.

Tyler laughs, too, and wipes the back of his hand across his cheek. They look at each other, sitting on the floor in their game day suits with their dicks hanging out. That sour burn of anger under his skin is gone. He feels tired and disappointed, feels all the aches of the game and Jamie’s hands, but he feels — peaceful, too.

"Sorry," Tyler says. "I know I’m part of the team, I’m _happy_ I’m part of this team. And I know everyone wants it as much as I do.”

Jamie smiles, soft and crooked. He reaches out and pulls Tyler into an awkward hug. “We wouldn’t have made it to the playoffs without you. Boston didn’t need you, but we do.”

Tyler grips Jamie’s shirt and rests his forehead on Jamie’s shoulder. “I know,” he says, and it feels true, solid. “I know.”

He doesn’t say _I needed you guys, too_ , but he’s pretty sure Jamie knows that already.


	3. Sid/Geno - having to be very quiet for fear of being overheard

"Shhh," Sid hisses. "This isn’t going to work if you keep making noise."

Geno is not 100% sure what “this” is in the current situation. He and Sid are jammed into the tiny space behind the shelves the furthest back corner of the equipment room, where Dana keeps all the broken bits and pieces that he can’t bear to throw away. There is a plan, he knows that much, and it involves Flower and Duper distracting Dana while he and Sid hide here until the coast is clear. Then they will— do something. Geno doesn’t know what, exactly, but he has been assured it will be _hilarious_.

Geno is going along with this because, okay, that thing with the packing peanuts was pretty great, but more importantly, because Sid had been laughing when he grabbed Geno in the hallway, his face lit up and grinning like Geno hasn’t seen in a long time. Sid said, “C’mon, I need your help, this is gonna be great,” and Geno couldn’t say no to him.

There’s thump from the front of the equipment room like someone just dropped a heavy box on the floor. A chorus of groans goes up from the interns checking the new equipment in.

"Sorry," Dana says cheerfully. "But this really is the last one, I swear."

Sid shrinks further back against Geno, and Geno puts his arm around Sid’s waist.

"Danaaaa," Flower whines from the door.

Dana heaves a huge sigh, and says,”Yeah, yeah. I’ll be back in twenty minutes, okay?”

Dana leaves, and the sounds of unpacking start up, ripping cardboard, crinkling plastic, the interns reading off serial numbers.

Geno shifts his weight. He’s already bored of this. What he’s not bored of is Sid pressed up against him, warm and solid and smelling like the cheap soap from the locker room showers.

Geno dips his head and kisses the side of Sid’s throat, right where it disappears into the collar of his t-shirt.

He can feel the silent catch in Sid’s breathing and he smiles against his shoulder. He kisses Sid again, the sensitive spot behind his ear.

"Geno—" Sid breathes.

"Shhhh," Geno murmurs back, mock-stern. He slides his palm under the hem of Sid’s shirt, strokes his thumb over the smooth skin of his belly. "Or we get caught."

Sid shivers under his touch.

Geno slides his fingers under the waistband of Sid’s track pants, traces the cut line of Sid’s hipbone with his fingertips.

"Geno—" Sid says again, a tiny edge of desperation in his voice.

Geno kisses the corner of his jaw. “You want ruin prank?”

Sid doesn’t say anything. Geno moves his hand to cup Sid’s dick through his pants. He’s half-hard already, getting harder under the pressure of Geno’s hand.

Sid could step away and Geno would let him, Sid could tell him to stop and he would, but the illusion of control, the illusion that Sid has to hold still and let him do this makes something curl hot and heavy in Geno’s stomach. Geno rolls his hips against Sid’s ass, lets him feel how into this he is, too.

Sid exhales and leans back into him more. Geno gets his hand into Sid’s pants and wraps his palm around Sid’s cock. The angle is wrong, there’s not enough room for him to really jerk Sid off, so he just plays with him instead. He squeezes the length of him in his hand, rubs his thumb over the head of his dick.

Sid’s breathing is fast and shaky now.

Geno kisses the side of his throat, gentle and soft, then sinks his teeth into his shoulder, where the bruises won’t be visible to the media.

Sid drags in a ragged breath.

"Shhhh," Geno says in his ear. He shifts his grip, slips his hand down to cup Sid’s balls and roll them in his palm, squeeze just shy of too hard.

Sid makes a noise in the back of his throat, caught behind clenched teeth.

"I like better when you can make noise," Geno whispers, barely audible. "Make the best noises, Sid, so hot."

Sid shakes his head, grimacing.

There’s a clatter from the front of the room, and someone yells, “Goddammit, Chip!”

Sid flinches and his hips flex, pushing up into Geno’s grip.

"I like it better when I can see your face when we fuck, too," Geno says, Russian sliding off his tongue like water. "You look so beautiful, I want to see you like that always. I love the way you say my name, even if it isn’t really my name."

Sid gasps, slaps his hand over his own mouth to muffle the sound. He shudders all over and comes, warm and slick over Geno’s hand.

Geno lets himself smirk. He rubs his dick against Sid’s ass, so round and perfect.

Sid grind back against him, and Geno mutters, “Fuck.”

Sid twists in his arms, pushes him back against the wall.

Geno opens his mouth and Sid puts his hand over it. “Shhh,” Sid whispers.

His eyes are wide and dark, locked with Geno’s, and his hand feels huge, his grip strong and rough across Geno’s mouth.

Sid shoves his thigh between Geno’s legs, and Geno’s eyes fall shut. He rolls his hips against Sid’s thigh, all that solid muscle against his hard cock. He lets himself say Sid’s name when he comes, lost against the heat of Sid’s palm.

He blinks his eyes open after a minute. Sid’s watching him. He takes his hand away from Geno’s mouth.

The sound of the equipment room door shutting makes them both startle. They hold their breath, but the room is completely silent.

Sid doesn’t move away. “What did you say to me at the end there?” he asks, still quiet.

"Oh," Geno says, hesitating. "Nothing, just— would be hot, if they see us, see you like that."

"Oh," Sid says, smiling a little and blushing, ducking his head. "Maybe."

Geno makes a teasing, speculative noise.

Sid steps back, smiling wider now. “C’mon,” he says. “We still have time before Dana gets back.”

Geno smiles back, because he can’t help himself. “Okay, Sid.”


	4. PK/Carey - college AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PK Subban the art student and Carey Price his long-suffering RA!

Carey’s first semester involves a lot more homesick freshmen, mediating relationship drama, refilling the bowls of free condoms and candy, and banging on the Gallys’ door to tell them that, Jesus Christ, if he can smell the weed, so can campus security, so just hotbox the car like normal freshmen than he expected. PK comes by the first day of classes for the free condoms and won’t stop hanging out with Carey after that. Which is good, because PK is way better at dealing with sad freshmen and organizing things like movie night and ultimate frisbee games and Take Back the Night rallies for their floor.  
  
PK is just — pretty great in general, and Carey’s decided, for the sake of his emotional well-being, to ignore the sight of PK padding to the bathroom in just a worn-out pair of sweats and the steady stream of girls and boys who leave PK’s room with smiles and hickeys.

  
  
Carey runs into PK at a frat party that’s about ten minutes away from having the police called on it. PK’s out on the lawn with a bunch of seniors who are doing keg stands. Carey rolls his eyes and throws his arm around PK’s shoulders.   
  
"How about we re-examine our life decisions regarding alcohol consumption back at the dorm?" he says. It’s not really a suggestion.  
  
"I’m legal to drink in Canada!" PK says.  
  
Carey rolls his eyes and continues to herd him away from the keg. “We’re not in Canada.”  
  
"But, but, solidarity, man! You should abide by the rules of our home and native land, not this nation of imperialistic puritans!"  
  
"How about I abide by the rules of this university that has contracted me to be your RA?"  
  
PK heaves a sigh and leans into Carey’s side. “That’s legit, I guess.”  
  
"Thank you, your approval means the world to me," Carey says, deadpan.  
  
PK laughs and lets Carey steer him across campus. When they’re finally standing in front of his door, PK says, “You should still make it up to me.”  
  
"Make what up to you? Letting you slide on underage drinking?"  
  
"You’re right, that’s a terrible line. How about I make it up to you instead?"  
  
"What?"  
  
PK grabs the front of Carey’s shirt, pulling him in until they’re face to face. “Let me make it up to you,” PK says, low and flirty, his mouth almost brushing Carey’s.  
  
Heat rushes over Carey’s skin. He has to take a deep breath before he can step back and say, “No.”  
  
"Why not?" PK asks.  
  
"Because — because I’m your RA," Carey says.  
  
PK huffs. “It’s not against the rules, I checked.”  
  
"It still looks skeevy as hell, and I don’t want to screw up my recommendation letters for a casual hook-up," Carey snaps. Which is true, and that’s what Carey decided at the beginning of the year, before he even knew PK. But now it’s more like he doesn’t want to get his heart broken over a casual hook-up.  
  
PK’s face falls. “Oh,” he says. He looks hurt for a moment, before he smooths it away with a tight, fake smile. It makes something twist guiltily in Carey’s chest. PK steps back and drops his eyes. “Sorry, man.”  
  
Shit. Carey opens his mouth, but PK is already turning away, unlocking the door to his room. “Night,” he says, and doesn’t look back at Carey.  
  
Things are different after that. PK’s still friendly, still comes to movie night and sits at Carey’s table when they’re in the cafeteria at the same time. But he stops coming by Carey’s room to just hang out, stops asking to sketch Carey for his figure drawing class. He starts running before dinner instead of in the morning like Carey does when he has time.   
  
PK’s friends give Carey dirty looks in the hallway now. Even Prust, who comes out of PK’s room with a hickey and a disapproving glare, which — Prust has a girlfriend, Carey doesn’t know where he gets off being judgy. (Carey’s self-righteous irritation lasts until Maripier comes out of the women’s bathroom on their floor with a matching hickey and identical disapproving glare.)  
  
It sucks. Carey misses PK. He doesn’t know how to fix it, and he doesn’t have the time or the energy to figure it out. Spring semester is more than halfway over now, and he’s juggling his senior thesis, applications to vet school (which, as his advisor likes to remind him constantly, is more competitive than med school), and a hall full of freshmen who are not handling the stress well. Nothing has actually been set on fire, but he thinks it’s just a matter of time, and he’s going through candy and tissues at an alarming rate.  
  
He falls asleep at his desk studying one night, and when he wakes there’s a plate of PK’s mom’s Nanaimo bars next to his comparative anatomy textbook. PK always shares when his mom sends him baked goods, but before he’d bring the whole care package and make Carey watch stupid YouTube videos on his laptop while they ate.  
  
Carey stares at the cookies for a good long while, trying to figure out what they mean. Mostly they just make him feel like he’s fucked something up. He eats them anyway, because PK’s mom knows what she’s doing, and he’s tired and hungry.  
  
Everyone makes it through the semester alive. Carey graduates with honors, and PK comes to ceremony. He whoops and cheers when Carey walks across the stage, but he does the same for a couple of the other seniors he’s friends with. Carey can’t catch up with him afterwards, surrounded by his parents and his sister. And it’s— his family’s so happy and proud, and Carey is too, there’s just this tight little knot of anxiety and sadness in his chest that won’t quite go away.  
  
There’s one last party before the dorms close for the summer. Carey figures he can quit being a responsible RA a day early, and starts drinking as soon as he gets there.   
  
PK’s there, too, it turns out, with Tavares and a couple of other sophomores. When he sees Carey, he grins. “Congratulations, man!”  
  
He pulls Carey into a hug, and is body is warm and solid against Carey’s, and Carey hadn’t even realized he’d missed this, missed PK’s hugs. His hands tighten on PK’s back, and then PK is stepping back.  
  
"So," PK says, "you know, I guess — have a nice summer? Life?"  
  
"PK—"  
  
"I gotta go," PK says, taking another step back. He’s talking as much to Tavares as he is to Carey. "I gotta finish packing."  
  
Tavares scowls at Carey when PK leaves, and Carey must be drunker than he thought, because he says, “Why are you guys all mad at me?”  
  
"Uh, because PK really liked you and you were a dick to him about it?"  
  
Carey blinks. “What?”  
  
"I mean, it’s one thing if you’re not interested, but you told him you’d fuck him if it didn’t mess up your letters of recommendation, and that’s pretty cold."  
  
"No, I— He liked me?"  
  
Tavares gives him a flat, unimpressed look, like he’s revising his opinion of Carey’s intelligence downwards. “Yeah, man. You couldn’t tell?”  
  
"I thought he was like that with everyone," Carey says, and it sounds lame even to him.  
  
"He’s not," Tavares says.   
  
"Oh."  
  
Tavares snorts, shaking his head, and Carey goes and gets another beer, because what else is he going to do?  
  
He wakes up in PK’s bed. He knows it’s PK’s bed because the sheets smell like him and he recognizes the pattern on the comforter.  
  
Carey rolls over onto his back. PK’s sitting at the foot of the bed, his back against the wall, his sketchbook in his lap. He puts down his pencil and smiles at Carey, but there’s something cautious in it.  
  
"Um," Carey says.  
  
"You were pretty insistent about them bringing you back here instead of your room. You really wanted to tell me something."  
  
Carey covers his eyes with one hand. “Right. It was probably about how I really liked you and only turned you down because I thought you weren’t into me.”  
  
PK’s quiet for a minute. “You also complained about American beer.”  
  
Carey turns his head.   
  
PK taps his foot against Carey’s ankle. “Kind of shitty timing on figuring this out.”  
  
Carey takes a deep breath. “I’m coming back next semester. The veterinary program accepted me.”  
  
PK’s eyes go wide. “Wait, really? That’s awesome, congratulations, dude!”  
  
"And I was thinking, if you’re going to be here next semester, too, maybe I could make it up to you?" Carey’s heart is beating a little too fast.  
  
PK laughs outright. “That’s still a terrible line, but it’s gonna work.”


	5. Sid/Geno - accidental baby acquisition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based loosely off [that video of Geno at the orphanage](http://elizathornberries.tumblr.com/post/81485817276/geno-on-one-of-his-orphanage-visits-x), because (1) ugh, my emotions and (2) if you were one of those kids, wouldn’t you want to follow Geno home?

Geno both loves and hates the visits like this, to the children’s hospitals and the orphanages. He likes that his money and his time and his name can make the kids happy, and he wants to believe he’s actually doing some good for them. But the last couple of times have left him with a weird melancholy ache in his chest and an urge to call his mother and tell her he loves her.  
  
He parks in his building’s garage. He opens the rear door of the car to grab his bag out of the backseat and freezes.  
  
Curled up asleep in the footwell behind the passenger seat is a tiny child, tucked under one of Geno’s dirty t-shirts. Geno stares blankly at the kid for a long moment, and then pulls his cellphone out.  
  
There are a number of people he should call, but he scrolls past all of them almost automatically and FaceTimes Sid.  
  
"Hey!" Sid says, squinting dubiously at his screen. "What’s up?"  
  
"I think, maybe problem," Geno says, English feeling stiff and clumsy in his mouth after a summer away.  
  
"What’s wrong?"  
  
Geno turns the phone around so Sid can see the kid.  
  
"Oh my God, Geno," Sid hisses. "Did you steal a baby?"  
  
"No!" Geno says, turning the phone around again. "I think he hide in car. When I go to—"  
  
Talking has woken the kid up. He scrubs at his eyes and blinks sleepily up at Geno. It’s definitely one of the kids from the orphanage. His face brightens. “Zhenya!” he says and holds his arms up. He’s clutching a tiny hockey stick in one hand.  
  
"Wait," Geno says to Sid, and shoves his phone in his pocket.  
  
There is a muffled squawk from Sid, but he ignores it. He reaches down and picks the kid up, settling him on his hip.  
  
"Pyotr, yes?" he says.  
  
Pyotr nods shyly.  
  
"What are you doing here, Pyotr?"  
  
Pyotr holds out the stick. “I want to play hockey like you.”  
  
"Ah," Geno says. He shuts the car door and starts walking towards the elevators.  
  
"Can I stay?"  
  
"You can stay for a little while," Geno says. "Just a little, though."  
  
Pyotr smiles at him and tucks his head under Geno’s chin. Geno pulls his phone out of his pocket. Sid’s scowl eases when he sees the two of them.  
  
"You’re going to call someone, right?" he asks. "Someone over there who can actually fix this."  
  
"Yes, Sid," Geno says.  
  
Pyotr reaches out towards the screen and Geno holds it out of his grasp. Sid waves back.  
  
When they get into his apartment, he puts Pyotr down on the sofa and gives him his phone. “You can talk to Sid for a while, okay?”  
  
Pyotr nods.  
  
"Say hi, Sid," Geno says in English.  
  
"Privet," Sid says, and Pyotr laughs. Probably at Sid’s accent.  
  
Geno uses the landline to call his agent, who set up the visit in the first place.  
  
His agent yells for five minutes about the orphanage’s incompetence, Geno’s unfortunate attractiveness to children and animals, and the aggravating behavior of children in general. Geno leans against the doorframe and watches Pyotr talk to Sid. Sid’s making vague encouraging noises that don’t need translation and laughing occasionally, and Pyotr seems delighted.  
  
"All right," his agent says. "I’ll call them and have someone come take care of this."  
  
Geno only realizes he’s been smiling fondly at Pyotr and Sid when he feels it fade. “Thanks.”  
  
His agent hangs up and he goes back to sit down next to Pyotr, who’s telling Sid about Geno’s visit. Sid is nodding along enthusiastically, like he understands everything.  
  
Geno lets them talk until his phone lights up with another call. “Sorry, Sid, have to go,” he says.  
  
"Good luck," Sid says.  
  
"Someone should be there in about an hour," his agent says. "Do you have everything under control?"  
  
"Yeah, we’re fine," Geno says. "Talk to you later."  
  
Geno digs up a tennis ball, only lightly chewed by Geoffrey, and lets Pyotr bat it around while he plays goalie. Pyotr is concentrating fiercely and Geno kind of wants to call Sid back and show him. But there’s no real reason to.  
  
When Pyotr gets tired, Geno settles him in his lap and they flip through an old issue of Sports Illustrated. There’s only a tiny section on next year’s Olympics, and Geno skips right over that.  
  
Finally, someone from the orphanage shows up. Geno buzzes her up. When Pyotr sees her, his face crumples.  
  
She smiles warmly and goes down on one knee. She pulls a well-loved teddy bear out of her bag, holding it out to Pyotr. Pyotr gasps and grabs it, hugging it to his chest. She scoops him up, and he doesn’t struggle.  
  
"Do we have to go?" he asks.  
  
"Yes," she says.  
  
"I wouldn’t be a good coach for you," Geno says. "You need to stay and practice with kids your own age, like I did. Okay?"  
  
Pyotr nods, but turns his face into Natalia’s neck and sniffles loudly.  
  
"He’s just tired," she says, rubbing Pyotr’s back.  
  
Geno forces a smile. His chest is tight and his eyes feel hot and scratchy. “I know.”  
  
He feels exhausted when they finally leave, and he can’t even bring himself to make dinner. He goes to bed early, but he’s still lying awake in the dark when Sid calls.  
  
"Hi," Sid says. "Are you — is everything okay?"  
  
"Yes," Geno says. "Pyotr is gone. They come and take him."  
  
"Oh," Sid says. "I guess that’s good?"  
  
Geno doesn’t say anything, and Sid launches into a recital of all the Pens he’s talked to recently and their summer training routines. It’s soothing.  
  
Sid breaks off when Geno yawns, huge and jaw-cracking. He’s quiet for a minute, and they just listen to each other breathe.  
  
Finally Sid says, “Why did you call me, instead of anyone else?”  
  
"Oh," Geno sighs. "Don’t know. Maybe I think you say is okay, I can keep him."  
  
Sid laughs. Then he says, hesitantly, “Did you want to keep him?”  
  
Geno stares up at the ceiling. “Maybe. A little.” He adds in a rush, “I know, I can’t.”  
  
"No! I mean, okay, maybe you can’t just keep the kid that followed you home, but you could, we could—" Sid stops, takes a deep breath. "We should talk when you get home."  
  
His voice is warm and fierce somehow, and Geno’s chest feels lighter. He closes his eyes, sleep tugging at him. “Okay,” he says. “Yes.”  
  
"Good," Sid says softly in his ear, and Geno falls asleep to the sound of it.


	6. Hallsy/Ebs/Nuge - truth or dare

"Dare," Taylor says, grinning at him, and shit, Ryan knew coming to Cabo was a mistake.  
  
He thought he had this under control, thought he was getting over this stupid crush on them. But Cabo feels a little unreal, a week of sunshine and drinking by the pool, a week with no hockey or training or rigidly detailed schedule. There’s nothing to distract him from Taylor and Jordan half-naked all the time, laughing and casually affectionate.  
  
Jordan’s already lost his shirt in another dare. Taylor’s still grinning at him, waiting, his arm thrown over Jordan’s bare shoulders. Ryan slams back the rest of his beer and says, “I dare you to do a body shot off of Ebs.” Because he is a masochist at heart.

There is a burst of whoops and cheers from the rest of the guys at the table, and Taylor’s grin gets wider.  
  
"Done," Taylor says. He waves the waitress over and orders a round of tequila shots for everyone.  
  
Ryan does his with the rest of the guys, hissing at the burn. He can blame the shot for the flush of heat that runs over his skin when Taylor makes Jordan lie down on the table.  
  
Jordan bitches about the stickiness, but he quiets when Taylor puts a hand on his shoulder. Taylor hands him the wedge of lime and Jordan sets it between his teeth. He waggles his eyebrows at Ryan. Taylor shakes salt onto Jordan’s collarbone. He catches Ryan’s eye, making sure he’s watching, before he ducks his head and licks a long slow line over Jordan’s skin.  
  
Someone wolf-whistles, but Ryan barely hears it over the sudden pounding of his heart. He can see Jordan’s skin shiver under Taylor’s tongue, the hitch in the rise and fall of his chest. Taylor lifts his head and tosses back the shot, then bends in again to sink his teeth into the lime wedge in Jordan’s mouth. He slides his fingers through Jordan’s hair, holding him still, and for a second it really does look like they’re making out.  
  
Taylor sits back and takes the lime out of his mouth. There’s another round of laughter and wolf-whistles. Taylor ignores all of them to meet Ryan’s eyes.  
  
"Truth or dare?" Taylor says, low and husky, something filthy in the curve of his grin.  
  
"No, that’s not how it works," Gags says, and Ryan can look away, can breathe again. "You gotta ask someone different."  
  
"Fine," Taylor says. "I dare you to go skinny dipping in the ocean."  
  
Gags throws his hands up and they spend another five minutes arguing about the rules, but they all do end up naked in the ocean.  
  
*  
  
Ryan is standing in the hallway, dripping a little, concentrating on getting the key card into the door. Taylor and Jordan are leaning on each other, unsuccessfully trying to smother their giggles.  
  
"Shhh," Ryan says. Maybe he has the card backwards?  
  
Taylor wraps his arms around Ryan’s waist and hooks his chin over Ryan’s shoulder, and Ryan freezes.  
  
"Truth or dare?" Taylor whispers in his ear. He smells like tequila and the ocean and Ryan shivers.  
  
The lock blinks green and Ryan shoves the door open, twisting out of Taylor’s grip. “I don’t want to play anymore,” he says, voice tight.  
  
"Jordan—" Taylor says.  
  
"Dare," Jordan says, unhesitating. The door clicks shut behind them, and Ryan doesn’t look back, heading for the shower.  
  
"I dare you to kiss Ryan," Taylor says.  
  
Ryan stops and closes his eyes just for a second before he turns around. “I told you—” he starts, and Jordan kisses him.  
  
It’s soft and coaxing, Jordan’s hand coming up to cup the side of his face. It doesn’t feel like a dare, or a game. When Jordan pulls back, Ryan is breathless, his heart beating fast. Taylor is pressed up against Jordan’s back, watching him seriously.  
  
"Now tell him the truth," Jordan says.  
  
"We miss the way you used to look at us," Taylor says, and Ryan flushes. "We thought we blew our chance with you because we couldn’t get our shit together in time. But this week—"  
  
He trails off and Jordan says, “This week you were looking at us again, and we thought maybe we had a second chance.”  
  
"Oh," Ryan says. He licks his lips, and they both drop their eyes to look at his mouth. _“Oh.”_

He’s not sure if it’s a second chance if it turns out he was never over them in the first place, but he’s not going to argue on a technicality. “Yes,” he says, and they grin at him, bright and open and happy.


	7. Paulie/Nealer - accidental baby acquisition

I think what would be extra agonizing about James Neal + baby is that the reason Paulie didn’t hook up with him while he was in Pittsburgh is that he thought James was too young for him. James flirted like crazy at first, and it’s not like Paul wasn’t tempted (oh god was he tempted), but James is young and reckless and nowhere near ready to settle down. Paul knew himself, knew he’d get too attached to someone who’s just looking to fool around, so he shut that down. James gave up on the flirting eventually, moved on to a bunch of casual hook-ups, and they settled into an easy friendship.   
  
James gets traded, and it sucks, but Paulie’s been in this business a long time, he’s used to it. It’s just another reminder that he was smart not to get involved with James in the first place (despite what he thinks sometimes late at night, when his house is empty and too quiet).  
  
And then James’s sister gets pregnant.  
  
She wants to have the baby, but she’s still in college. The father’s not in the picture, and James says, hey, come live with me, I’ve got a ton of money and space. And, well, it’s better than moving in with their parents (not that they aren’t supportive, it’s just, you know), or trying to do this on her own. So she transfers to Tennessee State University for her senior year.    
  
James made the offer on impulse and he isn’t really expecting his life to change that much. But he loves his nephew from the second he gets to hold him in the hospital, and things change anyway.   
  
He stops going out as much, and makes sure he never goes home drunk (even if he has to sleep it off on Weber’s couch). He makes more of an effort to hang out with the family guys, the guys with wives and kids, so his sister has that support system to help her out. They have a nanny, but only an asshole would live with a baby and not learn how to change a diaper and make a bottle. And James isn’t that kind of an asshole.

He bugs Paul (and Duper and Flower and Tanger) about things like child-proofing the house and development milestones and how to get babies to stop crying. (Paul doesn’t know why James is asking him, but James just shrugs and says, You seem like the kind of guy who would know that stuff.)   
  
Paul notices the way James’s stories gradually stop being about clubs and hook-ups and start being about his nephew and team barbecues. When James meets up with the team before their game in Pittsburgh, he spends an hour with the married guys sharing pictures of their kids on their phone.

Sometimes when they’re Skyping, his sister brings the baby in to say good night, and James’s whole face lights up, soft and adoring. Once, James sends Paul a snapchat of him and his nephew in bed with the text _nap buddies!_ and Paul has to go put his head down for a while.  
  
Because it was — maybe not easy, but doable, to say no to James when he was just some dumb kid who would break Paul’s heart in the long run. But this is the James that Paul would want to spend the rest of his life with, and it hurts in a whole different way to know he’s never going to get that.   
  
(James, meanwhile, is still a little bit in love with Paul, he just figures that Paul isn’t interested, because Paul turned him down so gently and firmly that first year.)  
  
James’s sister gets offered a great internship in Paris over the summer after she graduates, and James says, Go, do it, it’s only three months, I got this.  
  
One week into having single custody of his nephew, he calls Paulie and says, OH GOD I DON’T HAVE THIS.  
  
So Paul, against his better judgment, comes and spends a couple of weeks living with James and the baby. Well, he intends for it to be just a couple of weeks, but it ends up being the rest of the summer.   
  
And it’s this terrible combination of amazing and awful for Paul, because it’s almost exactly what he wants, what he always pictured his life to be like after he retires, but not quite, because he and James are just friends. So it’s just endless pining and jerking off in the shower.  
  
(For James, too, even though he never thought this was something he’d want.)  
  
And then James goes out for drinks when a couple of the other Preds come back to town early, and Paul babysits.  
  
Paul falls asleep on the couch in front of the TV, James’s nephew on his chest, and when he wakes up, James is looking at them both with this gut-punched expression.  
  
"What?" Paul asks. "What’s wrong?"  
  
And James isn’t drunk, so he doesn’t know why he says it, maybe just because the hugeness of this is finally hitting him. “Shit, Paulie, I’m still in love with you.”  
  
AND THEN KISSING. And Paul retiring to Nashville and eventually intentional baby acquisition for them, and living happily ever after.


	8. Jamie/Sid - praise kink at the Olympics

Jamie knows he deserves to be there. He worked hard all season to prove it, and he’s not going to let anyone tell him differently.  
  
But still, when Sidney Crosby — the best player in their generation, the guy who scored the gold medal winning goal when he was younger that Jamie is now, that Sidney motherfucking Crosby — leans over to tap his fist against Jamie’s thigh, and say, “Good shift,” Jamie blushes like he’s a thirteen year old girl.  
  
*  
  
When he tips the puck past Quick, Jamie feels a hot, bright surge of satisfaction. He holds on to it for a minute, long enough for Getzy and Perry to slam into him, yelling their heads off, but then he pushes it down. He has to focus, the game isn’t anywhere close to over. There’s going to be an answering goal, and there has to be an answer to that. This is just the beginning.  
  
But there isn’t. His goal stands as the game-winning one, the one that gets them to the gold medal round.  
  
Part of him doesn’t believe it, even when they go through the handshake line. It’s not until they get back to the Olympic village, and all that barely-contained glee breaks free, that it hits him — they can’t do worse than silver.  
  
"Holy shit," he says.  
  
"Fucking right!" Getzy yells in his ear.  
  
There’s a couple of discreet rounds of shots; no one’s getting shitfaced, but come on. It feels like everyone on Team Canada has hugged him at least once. He’s dizzy with adrenaline and victory and real Russian vodka.  
  
Sid finds him hanging out with Subban and Tavares. “Hey,” he says. “Can I talk to you for a second?”  
  
He’s got his serious captain face on, so Jamie nods and follows him out of the lounge and up to his room.  
  
Sid locks the door behind him, and Jamie takes a deep breath. He’s only gotten two points in the whole tournament, and he couldn’t make anything happen on Sid’s line, but—  
  
When Sid turns around, he’s grinning. “Fuck, that was a beautiful goal.”  
  
Jamie feels his face go hot. He shakes his head. “I was just in the right place at the right time.”  
  
Sid’s eyebrows go up. He steps closer, pokes Jamie in the chest. “You won the face-off, you got your own secondary assist.”  
  
Jamie doesn’t even know how to feel about the fact that _Sidney Crosby_ was watching him that closely on the ice, that he saw all that.  
  
Sid gives him a little nudge, and Jamie steps back. The back of his knees hit the edge of the narrow twin bed and he sits down.  
  
"You set that whole play up and you were in position to finish it." Sid is smiling again, and there’s this edge to it that makes Jamie’s stomach tighten with nerves or anticipation. "It was fucking hot."  
  
Jamie’s breath catches. This whole time he’s felt like he does when he’s skating with Sid, half a step behind. But he’s caught up now.  
  
Sid sees it in his face. His grin widens and he steps closer, between Jamie’s knees, so Jamie has to tip his head back to see Sid’s face.  
  
"A goal like that deserves a reward," Sid says. He licks his lower lip, and Jamie traces the motion with his eyes. "What do you want?"  
  
It’s an overwhelming question, but really, Jamie wants what he’s wanted since he first got here. “I wanna suck you off,” he says in a rush.  
  
Sid’s eyebrows go up. “You sure?” he asks, but his eyes drop to Jamie’s mouth.  
  
"Yeah," Jamie says, and it’s definitely anticipation humming under his skin.  
  
Sid laughs. “Okay, fuck, awesome. How do you want—?”  
  
"Switch places?"  
  
Sid sits down on the bed next to him, and Jamie slides to the floor. Sid spreads his legs wider to Jamie can kneel between them.  
  
Jamie pops the button on Sid’s jeans, unzips his fly. Sid’s already hard in his boxers. Jamie eases him out. Sid’s cock is built like the rest of him, short and thick. The head is the same deep pink as Sid’s lips.  
  
Jamie glances up at Sid’s face, Sid’s cock heavy in his hand. Sid rubs the pad of his thumb over Jamie’s lower lip, but what he says is, “That goal got me hard.”  
  
Jamie shivers all over and closes his eyes for a second. He ducks his head and slides Sid’s cock into his mouth.  
  
Sid hisses in a breath. “Not just that goal. I love watching you on the ice.”  
  
Something soft and hot unfurls in Jamie’s stomach. Sid runs his fingers through Jamie’s hair, not pulling, just petting.  
  
"You’re so big," Sid says, and he squeezes Jamie’s shoulders between his thighs. "But you’ve got an incredible shot. Just — unbelievable hands."  
  
Later, Jamie can be embarrassed about how much this is doing it for him, Sid praising his hands, his shot, Sid’s fingertips so gentle against his skull. But right now it just feels amazing.  
  
He swallows Sid deeper, and Sid lets out a tiny noise. Jamie finds his rhythm, sloppy and eager.  
  
"This whole tournament," Sid says roughly. "You know you earned this, right?"  
  
Jamie opens his eyes, looks up at Sid’s face. Sid’s watching him with fierce, dark eyes.  
  
"Your spot here, your ice time — you earned it."  
  
A wave of heat washes over him. His eyes fall shut again and he sucks harder, working the flat of his tongue under the head of Sid’s cock.  
  
"You’re so — fuck, Jamie," Sid grits out. "I’m gonna—"  
  
Jamie ignores the warning, and Sid comes in a slick rush against the back of his throat.  
  
Jamie swallows messily. He pulls off of Sid’s cock. His jaw aches and his mouth feels used in the best way. He’s so hard it hurts. He drops his head forward to rest against Sid’s hip and fumbles for his own cock.  
  
"Hey, no," Sid says. He grabs Jamie’s shoulder and tugs. "C’mon, up."  
  
Jamie makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, but he lets Sid pull him up onto the bed.  
  
Sid yanks down on his track pants, and Jamie lifts his hips. Jamie’s dick springs free, slapping back against his belly.  
  
"Do you know how many blowjobs I got for that golden goal?" Sid asks, leaning in. "You deserve this."  
  
He licks a long stripe up the underside of Jamie’s dick. Jamie has to clench his fists in the sheets, fight the urge to push up into Sid’s mouth.  
  
"You’ve been so good for us, Jamie," Sid says, and Jamie comes.  
  
It knocks the breath out of him, that blinding rush of heat and sensation.  
  
When he can breathe again, he blinks his eyes open. Sid’s grinning at him.  
  
"You got us to the gold medal game. You gonna make sure we come home with the right medal?"  
  
Jamie laughs, breathless and giddy, because holy shit, look at his life, playing for gold with Sidney Crosby at the goddamn Olympics. “Fuck, yeah.”


	9. Ovi/Geno, accidentally outing themselves to teammates through sexts sent to the wrong person

It’s kind of inevitable, really. They’ve been doing this for a long time, off and on (and even in the worst parts of the off times, Geno kept Ovi’s number). At the beginning, they were so careful, no incriminating texts or pictures at all, later deleting things right away, triple and quadruple checking the “to” field.  
  
But it’s hard to keep that up. And anyway, nothing’s happened the couple of times they have slipped up. Ovi sent Kuznetsov a dick pic on accident last year, and Kuznetsov just thought it was some kind of rookie hazing thing (he sent one back). Geno’s sent a couple of Pens some absolutely filthy drunk texts by mistake, but no one on his team speaks Russian, so it’s like it never happened.  
  
So Geno will blame it on Gonch and his new Russian duckling, and the fact that Sid probably doesn’t know how to delete old messages, but really, it’s because that kind of secrecy is unsustainable in the end.  
  
What happens is they go to Dallas.

Geno has dinner with Gonch and Ksenia and the girls, which always makes him miss Alex. (Gonch and Ksenia have played peacemaker more than once for them.)  
  
Afterwards, he and Gonch go out for drinks with some of the Pens from back in Gonch’s time, and Val tags along.  
  
One or two beers in, Geno texts Ovi. Or, he means to, but it’s Sid’s phone that buzzes. Sid looks at it, then at Geno.  
  
"Nice to know we’re entertaining you," he says dryly, and Geno shrugs.  
  
Val glances at the screen of Sid’s phone, still lit up, and lets out a startled snort of laughter. “You send Crosby dirty texts?”  
  
"Accident, accident!" Geno says.  
  
"It’s dirty?" Sid asks, delighted. "What does it say?"  
  
Val flicks a look at Geno, and when Geno doesn’t react, he translates. “Miss your cocksucking mouth.”  
  
"Wow," Flower says. "Who is this girl that lets you talk to her like that, and why haven’t we met her?"  
  
Geno shrugs again. “Nothing, is just casual.”  
  
"Oh!" Sid says, scrolling through his phone. "Are they all dirty?"  
  
Val leans over his shoulder, laughing.  
  
"Sid," Geno says, and then the laughter drops off of Val’s face, his eyes snapping up to Geno.  
  
"Wait," he says, in Russian. " _Are_ you fucking Crosby?”  
  
"No," Geno says.  
  
"But you are fucking a hockey player," Val says, and it’s not a question. " ‘Room nine fifty one, I’m going to suck your brains out through your dick for that goal.’ " He looks back at the text, at the Cyrillic characters. "A Russian player."  
  
"Valeri—" Gonch starts.

Val looks at Gonch, then at Geno, and Geno can see the moment he figures it out, the way his eyes go wide and his mouth drops open, and—  
  
” _Ovechkin_?”  
  
Geno winces and Gonch facepalms. There’s no way the English pronunciation is different enough to pretend the rest of the table didn’t understand.  
  
"You’re sending Ovechkin dirty texts?" Flower asks slowly.  
  
"Um," Geno says. He takes a deep breath. "Yeah?"  
  
"Holy shit," Sid says gleefully. "Nealer owes me fifty dollars."


	10. Geno/Ovi - practicing pick-up lines in English on each other

They’re at some event for the prospects and their families the night before their NHL draft. Geno’s not _flirting_ , he’s just making conversation with a pretty girl near the appetizers. Well, he’s trying to make conversation. From her body language, it’s not going well.

Then Alex comes up and throws his arm around Geno’s shoulders. “Zhenya!” he says. “Who is beautiful one?”

She gives them a stiff smile. “Sorry, I have to go now,” she says, or at least that’s what Geno figures she says, since she walks off after that.

He sighs. She was probably some other prospect’s sister or girlfriend, but she had amazing legs.

Alex shakes his head. “You need to practice,” he says.

"Practice what?"

"Hitting on women in English," Alex says. "We’re going to be in the NHL, we’re going to be surrounded by beautiful American women, you can’t just give them puppy dog eyes and expect to get them into bed."

It’s not like Alex’s English is any better than his, he thinks irritably. It’s just that Alex doesn’t get tongue-tied in front of hot strangers. “She didn’t leave until you opened your mouth,” he points out.

Alex heaves a huge sigh. “Yes, true, we’ll both have to practice.”

"What? No, that’s—"

"Tonight," Alex says, slapping Geno’s back. "We’ll start practicing tonight."

*

After the dinner, Geno conscientiously brushes his teeth, changes into his pajamas, and goes to bed early. And then lies there in the dark, his stomach rolling nervously, unable to stop thinking about tomorrow.

So he’s almost grateful when Alex pounds on his door. Alex has his laptop under one arm and a bag of miscellaneous tiny bottles of minibar and airplane alcohol.

Geno rolls his eyes but lets him in. Alex sits cross-legged on the foot of his bed. They each crack open a bottle and throw the contents back.

Geno makes a face at the burn.

Alex opens his laptop. “I searched for American pick up lines.” He frowns at the screen, then reads carefully in English, “Did it hurt?”

"What?"

Alex gives him a cheesy smirk. “When you fell from Heaven.”

Geno gives him a long, flat look, then opens another bottle.

"Okay, okay," Alex says. "Here, how about this one: are those space pants? Because your ass is out of this world."

"Are you kidding?" Geno says. He understands almost all of those words, but they don’t make any sense together. He grabs Alex’s laptop.

Alex yelps and scrambles up to sit next to Geno. “See? ‘Out of this world’ means, like, spectacular.”

"So why not just say, your ass is spectacular?"

"Yeah, you try that," Alex says.

Geno scrolls down the page. “These are stupid.”

Alex hums, hands him another bottle. “There, you’d like that one,” he says. He leans into Geno and points at the screen. His body is a warm, familiar weight against Geno’s shoulder, and he smells like the hotel soap and the last traces of the cologne he was wearing. Geno doesn’t pull away.

"If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?" Geno reads, then snorts. "So, what, you just say, you’re beautiful, will you hug me?"

"Americans," Alex says.

Geno hesitates, anxiety rushing back. “Maybe you should have looked for Canadian lines.”

"American teams are one and two this year," Alex says.

Geno gives him a sidelong look. Alex sounds so confident, so sure.

Alex bumps their shoulders together almost gently. “So, we have to practice. You pick one.”

Geno exhales and lets it go. He scans the list. “Nice shoes, want to fuck?”

Alex laughs and shoves him. “Ugh, so romantic! That’s terrible.”

Geno shoves him back. “Okay, fine, what would you say?”

Alex straightens up and makes his face serious. He catches Geno’s eyes. “You have a gorgeous smile. I want to make you smile all the time. And your thighs, fuck, they’re so big and powerful, I can’t stop thinking about them wrapped around my waist.”

Alex’s voice is low and intense, but Geno’s going to blame the alcohol for the way his face goes hot, and his stomach swoops. “That’s Russian,” he says. “You’re cheating.”

Alex nods. “So then I would say—” he switches languages “—sorry, I study English for one hundred years and not know words to say how beautiful you are.”

Geno looks away, down at the computer screen. He clears his throat. “Not bad. But you should be careful. If she speaks Russian she’s going to be pissed that you called her thighs big.”

Geno knows Alex, and that’s the only reason he can hear the hesitation. His eyes snap back to Alex’s face, and Alex says, “Maybe I’m not hitting on a girl.”

Geno’s heart is beating too fast. There’s a weird breathless moment where they’re just staring at each other. Then Geno doesn’t know who moves first, but Alex’s mouth is pressed against his. It’s a hard, uncoordinated clash of teeth and lips, until Alex tips his head a little and Geno opens his mouth and they’re kissing.

Alex shoves the computer off of Geno’s lap and keeps kissing him. Geno grips the front of Alex’s shirt, kisses back.

Alex laughs. “See, it worked.”

"Shut up," Geno mutters. "I’m not an American girl."

Alex lifts his head and meets Geno’s eyes. “I know,” he says, low and fierce. Then his face softens and he grins, moves to straddle Geno’s hips. “I _know_ ,” he says again, and grinds down against Geno’s dick.

Geno moans. Alex is hard. Geno wasn’t to begin with but he gets there fast, with the sudden desperation of eighteen. Alex tugs his head back and kisses him again.

Geno grabs Alex’s hips and pushes up against him. Anything other than his own hand feels amazing on his dick, and Alex’s sloppy, enthusiastic kissing is only winding him up tighter.

Alex ducks his head and pulls the collar of Geno’s t-shirt aside so he can get his mouth on Geno’s shoulder, right where it meets his neck. He bites down and Geno gasps. His whole body jerks, a sharp flash of heat.

"Yeah," Alex says against his skin. He rolls his hips down against Geno’s hard on, and Geno comes in his boxers, a blinding rush.

Geno slumps back against the headboard. Alex is flushed, biting his lip. He lets out a breath that’s almost a whine.

"Zhenya—"

"Hmm?" Geno says lazily, but he takes pity on Alex and shoves his hand into Alex’s sweats.

He wraps his hand around Alex’s cock, and Alex makes a shocked sound.

Geno has enough time to think it doesn’t really feel like his own dick before Alex breathes, “Oh, fuck,” and comes all over Geno’s hand.

Geno huffs out a laugh.

Alex flops over onto his side. Geno wipes his hand off on Alex’s shirt, ignoring Alex batting weakly at him. He wriggles down into a more horizontal position.

Alex hooks his ankle over Geno’s. “You and me,” he says, sleepy but utterly sure. “One and two.”

"Da, da," Geno mumbles back, and maybe he does really believe Alex, because he falls asleep without a second thought.


	11. Jamie/Tyler - Tyler's face when Jamie says he's single

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because [Tyler's face](http://7iris.tumblr.com/post/102031037242) when Jamie says he's single is 100% the face of someone whose fuckbuddy just said he's single and who is blindsided by how much that bothers him. (From [this video](http://espn.go.com/nhl/story/_/id/11831256/nhl-dallas-stars-dynamic-duo-tyler-seguin-jamie-benn-clicking-the-ice).)

The thing is, up until that moment, Tyler had been totally on board with the “keep things casual” plan.

They hooked up for the first time right after they clinched a playoff spot, drunk on adrenaline and vindication more than from the celebratory beers with the guys. The morning after, Jamie had been as blushy and tongue-tied as when Tyler first got to Dallas.

Tyler stretched against the messy sheets and nudged Jamie’s ankle with his foot. “It’s not a big deal,” he said. “It’s just buddies.”

Jamie snorted, but his face relaxed. He gave Tyler a quick, relieved grin. “Okay,” he said.

"Okay," Tyler said, and that was that.

They didn’t sleep together again for the rest of the season. When they did the charity golf thing over the summer, Tyler had such a good time goofing around with Jamie that it seemed like a totally reasonable idea to catch Jamie’s eye and give him a filthy grin at the end of the day.

Jamie laughed. They swapped blowjobs in Tyler’s hotel room before they had to leave for the rest of their summer vacations.

After that, it was easy to fall into a pattern, hooking up when they saw each other over the summer, when they both came back early to start training.

It was fun, casual. Tyler still hit on girls in bars, with varying degrees of success. He didn’t really care if Jamie went home instead of cuddling in the afterglow; he’d see him the next day at practice anyway.

He brings it upon himself, asking that question, but he’s honestly not expecting that gut-punched feeling when Jamie says he’s single.

Tyler’s hooked up with plenty of his friends and never cared what they thought their relationship status was. Brownie told a girl he was single right in front of Tyler, the hickey that Tyler left still visible on his throat, and Tyler hadn’t blinked an eye.

Jamie’s still grinning at him, bright and open, and Tyler tries to smooth his face out, tries to get back into it. He fumbles the next question, but it’s okay because they’re switching after that, they can edit that out.

It’s stupid, because what was Jamie supposed to say? I’m seeing someone, and then make up a girl that none of the guys know about?

Still, when Jamie asks if he’d go horseback riding with him, Tyler says, “Probably not.”

It’s not what Jamie’s expecting. “Why not?” Jamie asks, shooting the camera a quick glance.

"That’d be a long time hanging out with you," Tyler says. He wants to needle Jamie, get under his skin.

"Are we not the bestest of friends already?" Jamie asks, and Tyler can tell it’s not entirely joking.

"Only to the media." He makes sure he’s laughing when he says it.

Jamie gives him a unreadable look, then changes the subject.

After the interview, when Jamie is driving them home, he asks, “Are you okay?”

Tyler digs a knuckle into his eyebrow. “Yeah, yeah.” He’s not angry at Jamie anymore, but the knowledge that Jamie thinks he’s single is a cold, sour lump in the pit of his belly.

Jamie drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “It’s still real,” he says carefully.

"What?"

"Us being friends. Just because management wants to sell this whole ‘Batman and Robin’ thing to the media and the fans — it doesn’t mean it’s not real."

"Yeah, I know," Tyler says. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? "We’re friends."

Jamie flashes him that happy grin again.

*

Tyler is going to let it go. So Jamie wants this to be casual, fine, he’s not going to sit around and, and… _pine_ after him.

Jamie’s pulling his jeans back on when his phone buzzes. Tyler rolls over onto his stomach, sex-dumb and sleepy, and watches Jamie check the message. Jamie chews on his lip.

"What?" Tyler mumbles.

"Nothing, it’s this girl that Jordie introduced me to," Jamie says. He puts his phone away and picks up his t-shirt.

Tyler’s stomach clenches. “Are you going out with her?”

"No," Jamie says. "I mean…" His voice trails off.

"I don’t want you to be single," Tyler blurts out.

"What, you think I should date her?"

Tyler closes his eyes for a second, then goes for it. “No, I think you should date me.”

Jamie freezes. “What?”

Jamie looks like a deer in the headlights. Tyler can’t say anything else.

"I don’t— you said this wasn’t a thing! This is just supposed to be casual!"

"I know," Tyler says. "But. But I don’t really want it to be casual anymore."

Jamie gives him one last shocked, wide-eyed look, and then walks out.

Tyler buries his face in a pillow. The dogs come in and jump up on the bed, and he lets himself get distracted by their happy licking and snuffling. It’s fine, he’s fine, he’s done dumb shit before and dealt with the consequences.

Marshall whines like he doesn’t believe Tyler, either.

*

Tyler wakes up when Jamie climbs onto the bed.

Tyler blinks at him.

"I have a key to your house," Jamie says.

"Um," Tyler says. "Yeah?"

"Your dogs love me."

Marshall and Cash are both trying to crawl into Jamie’s lap and lick his face, the traitors.

"We hang out all the time, and you’re still the last person I text at night before I go to sleep, and you’re the first person I text in the morning," Jamie says.

Tyler sits up, wide awake now. “Yeah,” he says. “I— yeah.”

"I’ve been thinking, and I don’t know what would be different if we actually were dating."

"We wouldn’t sleep with other people," Tyler says.

"I don’t, not anymore," Jamie says.

"Me neither."

"So—" Jamie takes a deep breath. "I’m not single. I have a boyfriend. I mean. If you still want—"

"Shut up, yes," Tyler says and lurches forward to kiss him. It’s a little awkward and off-target but Jamie tips his head just right, and then it’s perfect. Tyler’s breathless when he pulls back. "The boyfriend’s me, right?"

"Shut up, yes," Jamie says.

"Good," Tyler says, and kisses him again.

Later, curled up together under the covers, Tyler says, “I do want to go horseback riding with you. I want to do all that dumb, cheesy romantic date shit.”

"Good," Jamie says. "Me, too."


	12. Nick Foligno/Sergei Bobrovsky, accidentally married wedding planners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://7iris.tumblr.com/post/102785954149/accidentally-married-not-just-for-fanfic-anymore) about a pair of small business owners who accidentally registered for a domestic partnership instead of a business partnership.

Nick and Bob specialize in affordable hipster weddings. Non-traditional venues, vegan/kosher/gluten-free food that’s actually good, indie bands that are actually good (Cam’s does an amazing acoustic fiddle cover of “Happy”).

All goes down right before they’re profiled in the Style section of the Columbus Dispatch. The reporter’s done her homework — married wedding planners! how adorable! — and they can’t really say it’s all a mistake. Nothing screams “meticulous attention to detail” like “accidentally got ourselves married by filing the wrong paperwork.”

And nobody wants to hire divorced wedding planners, holy shit.

So they just kind of roll with it. This profile is a chance to really get their business off the ground, start bringing in clients through more than just word of mouth. They can always fix things when they’ve established their reputation.

"It’s not like it changes anything," Nick says. "We’re still partners."

"Right," Bob says. He looks dubious.

"Right," Nick says. His face is probably doing the same thing.

They put up with some teasing from their friends, who know the truth and think it’s HILARIOUS. Boone hand-calligraphies “Mr. and Mr. Foligno-Bobrovsky” on every available surface. Nick pays bills for months with that as the return address. (What, those envelopes are still perfectly good.)

The client they had before the profile comes out calls them the next day to say, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you guys are married!”

"Oh, uh," Nick says. "We wanted to keep things professional?"

She tsks. “I guess I’m not surprised. You guys seemed really good together, really in sync, y’know?”

"Oh," Nick says.

"Anyway, I’m having second thoughts about the chocolate fountain."

Nick’s glad to change the subject. He’s been having nightmares about that chocolate fountain.

When Nick’s at the florists confirming an order, he buys an orchid in a shade of purple he’s never seen before because he knows Bob will love it.

He puts it on Bob’s desk when he gets back to the office, and their new client’s mother sighs deeply. “It’s so sweet that your husband still brings you flowers,” she says.

Nick feels his whole face turn bright red, but Bob just grins at him, huge and bright, eyes crinkling up like he’s trying not to laugh. “Yes,” Bob says. “Am very lucky.”

The profile really does work. Pretty soon they’re booked solid, almost more work than they can handle. Nick’s busy enough that he barely has time to hook up, let alone date, so this whole being married thing really _doesn’t_ change anything.

He thinks maybe it should, though. It nags at him, and he finds himself randomly thinking about what would be different if they were married for real.

He still brings Bob coffee from the good place on his way to their office. Bob still saves a piece of the carrot cake for Nick when he does tastings with clients.

Bob’s the person he talks to the most every day. Not just about work shit, but about things like terrible reality tv that he watches when he’s too anxious to sleep, and the woman walking her ferret at eleven o’clock at night.

Nick doesn’t think any of that would change if they were married.

Nick’s hunched over his laptop, scowling at Quicken, when Bob puts a cup of tea down by his elbow.

"Thanks," Nick says.

"Welcome," Bob says. He puts his hands on Nick’s shoulders, digs his thumb into the knot next to Nick’s spine, and Nick groans.

Bob laughs, and Nick lets his head fall back so he can grin up at him. _If we were really married, I could kiss him right now,_ Nick thinks, and his whole body flushes. He closes his eyes and shoves the thought away.

Everything clicks at the end of the Finlay-Jiménez wedding. The wedding goes great. Everyone has a wonderful time, and the grooms leave happy (there was a small grease fire in the kitchen, but Jack put it out right away _and_ managed to save most of the sweet potato latkes, so— totally great).

Bob’s waiting by the van when Nick comes out. He looks tired, leaning on the hood, his tie undone and his hair mussed up. But when he sees Nick, he straightens up and smiles, and throws his arms out, waiting for the hug that Nick has given him after every wedding they’ve ever done together.

Nick wraps his arms around Bob and hugs him tight. Bob smells like cologne and buttercream frosting and a little like smoke, and he feels exactly right in Nick’s arms.

"I don’t want to get divorced," Nick blurts out.

"What?" Bob says.

Nick clears his throat and lets go, takes a step back.

Bob gives him a confused look.

"I, um, I want us to stay married," Nick says. "Forever. For real."

Bob shakes his head. He reaches out and grabs the lapel of Nick’s suit. “That is a terrible proposal,” he says. “But yes. I do not want to divorce you, too.”

This time, when Bob smiles at him, Nick kisses him.


	13. Sid/Geno, orgasm denial/edging and riding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 800 career points for Sid, if that doesn’t call for a little orgasm denial/edging + riding, I don’t know what does!

Sid’s laughing when they fall into bed.  
  
Geno kisses him, deep and slow and filthy, and when he lifts his head, Sid is still smiling. Geno grins back, automatic, helpless, and leans in again to kiss Sid’s mouth, to lick the side of his throat.  
  
Sid hums happily as Geno works his way down his body. They’re both down to just boxers, so Geno has all of Sid’s skin to work with. He takes his time, leaving tiny little bitemarks and bruises as he goes, soothing the sting with kisses.   
  
Sid’s squirming by the time he gets to the edge of his boxers. Geno nuzzles his cock through the fabric, licks at the damp spot that’s already forming.  
  
Sid gasps and pushes up against the pressure of Geno’s mouth. Geno tugs his boxers down until Sid’s cock springs free.  
  
"Geno," Sid says, somewhere between pushy and needy.  
  
"Sid," Geno says back, mock-serious, and then gets his mouth on Sid’s dick.  
  
Sid lets out a long, shuddery breath as Geno swallows him down.   
  
Geno takes his time with this, too. He pulls almost all the way off to suck at the head and flick his tongue over the slit, before slowly taking him deeper. He rolls Sid’s balls in his palm, presses his thumb up against that spot behind them that makes Sid’s hips buck up.  
  
It’s wet and sloppy, and he makes sure Sid can hear all of it, the slick sounds of his mouth and tongue, the pleased hum he lets out when Sid pulls on his hair.   
  
Sid’s talking back, just an inarticulate stream of yes and please and Geno, just like that.  
  
Geno’s jaw aches and his lips feel stretched and numb when he lifts his head. “Eight hundred points, I think more special than blowjob,” he says.  
  
"No, no, I am totally fine with a blowjob," Sid gasps.  
  
Geno shakes his head and sits up, leans over to dig through the nightstand for the lube and condoms. Sid groans. He throws his arm over his eyes, breathing fast and uneven.  
  
Geno sits back and pops the cap on the lube. Sid moves his arm. Geno makes sure Sid is watching as he slicks up his fingers, reaches around behind himself to press a finger into his ass.  
  
"Fuck, Geno." Sid pushes up and kisses him. He strokes his hand down Geno’s side, over the curve of his ass. He rubs a fingertip against the rim of Geno’s asshole, against Geno’s fingers. "Let me, I want to—"  
  
"Yeah," Geno says. Sid pushes one finger in alongside his own. It’s not quite slick enough and Geno hisses at the stretch of it.   
  
Sid nudges him back and Geno goes with it, stretching out on his back. Sid takes the lube and pours more of it over his fingers. He watches Geno with intense focus as he opens him up, his eyes flicking between Geno’s face and where his fingers are sliding into Geno. Geno watches Sid’s face in return, the way he bites his lip and flushes pinker when Geno rocks down against his hand.  
  
Sid leans in and kisses him. Geno kisses back for a long moment, then rolls Sid onto his back. Sid makes a startled noise. Geno straddles Sid’s thighs, settling all his weight on them. He puts his hands on Sid’s shoulders and bends down to brush his mouth over Sid’s.  
  
Sid’s breath hitches.  
  
"You like, I’m hold you down?" Geno asks.  
  
Sid shivers under him. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you know I do.”  
  
Geno rolls his hips, lets his cock drag against Sid’s.  
  
"Fuck, Geno, please—"  
  
Geno makes a thoughtful noise. He sits back and reaches, slowly, for a condom.   
  
Sid scrunches his whole face up, but he doesn’t complain. He’s tense, almost vibrating with anticipation. Geno rolls the condom down the length of Sid’s cock, slicks him up. He kneels up over Sid’s hips, reaches behind him to line Sid’s cock up.  
  
He sinks down slow, feeling the blunt press of Sid’s cock slide into him. Sid’s mouth drops open and his hands go to Geno’s hips.  
  
He grips hard enough to bruise, but he doesn’t try to pull Geno down faster. Geno eases down as slowly as he can, just to watch Sid flush and pant.  
  
"Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, Geno—"  
  
Geno stops moving when Sid is all the way inside him. Sid’s cock feels amazing, thick and hard inside him.  
  
Sid whines in the back of his throat. “Fuck, fine, please,” he says.  
  
Geno lifts up slowly and sinks back down again just as lazily.   
  
"You’re killing me," Sid says.  
  
"You love it," Geno says.  
  
Sid laughs. “Yeah.”  
  
Geno starts moving faster. Sid’s pushing up to meeting him. Geno can feel the muscles in Sid’s stomach and thighs pulling tight. Sid gasps, right on the edge, and Geno stops.  
  
Sid moans, ragged and loud. He tries to thrust up, but he can’t get the leverage. “Wait,” Geno says, “wait, will be better.”  
  
Sid screws his eyes shut, his mouth open and panting. When his breathing is steadier, Geno starts moving again. He gets a hand on his own dick, stroking himself in time to the rhythm he’s setting.   
  
"Geno, holy shit, you look like porn," Sid pants. "So hot, I need—"  
  
"Know what you need," Geno says. His rhythm’s off now, uncoordinated as he strokes himself faster.  
  
He sinks down on Sid’s cock and stops.   
  
Sid curses.  
  
Geno braces one hand on Sid’s shoulder and curls over him, jerking himself off. He’s so close, he can feel his orgasm building in the pit of his stomach.  
  
When he comes, he clenches down hard around Sid’s cock, and Sid’s whole body jerks.  
  
"C’mon, Sid," Geno says. His whole body is floating on a tide of heat and endorphins. He rolls his hips and Sid makes a desperate noise.  
  
Sid grips Geno’s hips and thrusts up into him, fast and hard. Sid’s cock moving inside him sets off little aftershocks, almost too much, but Sid is so close to the edge that it only takes a few strokes before he’s coming.  
  
Geno rides him through it, bends down to kiss his open, panting mouth, the corner of his jaw.  
  
Sid goes completely limp under him. His eyes are closed and he’s breathing like he just finished a speed drill.   
  
Geno eases off of him carefully. He takes care of the condom, then goes to clean up and get a wet washcloth from the bathroom.  
  
Sid’s eyes are half-open when he gets back. He makes a soft, pleased sound when Geno wipes him down.  
  
Geno tosses the washcloth at the nightstand and curls himself around Sid. “See? Good, yes?”  
  
Sid burrows a tiny bit closer to Geno. “Yeah, well, we’ll see how you like it when you hit eight hundred points,” he mumbles.  
  
"I like it a lot," Geno says. Because eight hundred points with Sidney Crosby is a pretty wonderful thought.


	14. PK/Carey, accidentally married at the Olympics

PK wakes up when someone pounds on the door to his room. He’s still a tiny bit drunk, because they just won a _gold medal holy shit_. Carey is draped over him, his face pressed against PK’s shoulder.  
  
The pounding keeps going. PK lifts a hand to scrub at his eyes. There’s something on his ring finger. It looks like the foil band from a cigar.  
  
"Let’s go, lovebirds," Lu shouts. "You’re gonna be late for the closing ceremony!"  
  
Carey groans and rolls over, right out of the narrow bed.  
  
PK stares at his hand. Things are coming back to him now. He remembers kissing Carey, in front of half of Team Canada, right after Lu said, “I now pronounce you husband and husband.”  
  
"Oh, shit," PK says.  
  
Carey groans again in agreement from the floor.  
  
*  
  
"It was a beautiful ceremony," Tavares says. "You asked me to be your best man, even though Sid was right there. It meant a lot."  
  
"Shut up," PK says, and punches him very gently in the shoulder.  
  
"Was that even legal?" Carey asks. He’s sitting next to PK, mostly because PK grabbed his hand and didn’t let go when they filed into their seats.  
  
JT shrugs. “Lu’s a minister of something. It’s off the internet, but it’s legit.”  
  
PK watches Carey out of the corner of his eye. Carey looks hunched and miserable in his Team Canada gear. “But you can’t get gay-married in Russia.”  
  
Sharpy leans over. “The Olympic village is like an embassy, Canadian soil or whatever. If it’s legal in Canada, it’s legal here.”  
  
They all eye Sharp. PK can’t decide if that sounds right or not.  
  
"I don’t—" JT starts, and then he’s cut off by a huge fanfare from the loud speakers as the ceremony starts.  
  
*  
  
Carey’s already taken his ring off. PK takes his off before they go through security at the airport. It’s dumb, but he tucks it carefully away in his carry on.  
  
He sits down next to Carey on the plane.”Do you think it’s…”  
  
Carey shakes his head. “I don’t know. Let’s just— worry about it later, okay?”  
  
"Okay," PK says.  
  
When he unpacks later, he finds the little foil band has been crushed. He is irrationally disappointed.  
  
*  
  
Prusty and the Gallys throw rice on them at the first practice after the break.  
  
Patches is smirking at them like crazy from across the room, which, so much for Olympian solidarity.  
  
Prust catches up with PK  on the way out the door, throws his arm around PK’s neck and drags him into a half-hug, half-headlock. “Hey, you know we all support your big gay marriage, right?”  
  
PK jabs his elbow into Prusty’s side. The words _it’s not real_ get stuck in his throat. “Yeah,” he says instead. “Thanks.”  
  
The team teases them about it, asking PK where his husband is or whether his husband is coming to Markov’s Easter thing, leaving space for PK next to Carey at dinner and on the sofa in the lounge.  
  
And PK is guiltily happy to take advantage, to take the seat next to Carey, to make Carey hold his hand. Carey snorts and rolls his eyes, but he never pushes PK off, or tells him to cut it out.  
  
They don’t talk about the whole possibly-married thing. It would probably take five minutes of googling to figure it out, but PK is finding that he doesn’t actually want to know for sure. Not if the answer is no, they’re not married.  
  
Besides, they’re busy. They’ve got the rest of the season to finish, and then the playoffs.  
  
Then the playoffs are over.  
  
PK is stupidly grateful that the team leaves a seat next to Carey free on the flight back. Carey’s got his bad leg stretched out in front of him. When PK sits down, Carey puts his arm around PK’s shoulder.  
  
"Fuck," PK says, low and rough, and leans into Carey’s side.  
  
"I know," Carey says.  
  
PK closes his eyes. He wants suddenly for this to be real, to be able to go home with Carey for real, sleep in his bed and drink his coffee in the morning, and kiss him until the sour taste of this loss disappears.  
  
He loses Carey in the crush of customs and baggage claim.  
  
"I think he got a ride with Gionta," Prust says.  
  
"Oh," PK says, and goes home alone.  
  
*  
  
They still don’t talk about it. They’ve got summer training and media appearances and…stuff.  
  
But when they meet up with Lu at the Team Canada event to get their rings, PK can’t find a good excuse to avoid it anymore.  
  
"How’s the happy couple?" Lu asks.  
  
"Yeah, about that," PK says. "Are you really a minister?"  
  
"Yeah," Lu says.  
  
"So…did you really marry us?"  
  
Lu squints at him. “I really did the ceremony, but you guys didn’t have a license, so it’s not legally binding or anything.”  
  
"Oh," PK says.  
  
"So congrats, you’re not married."  
  
"Oh," PK says again.  
  
Lu slaps him on the shoulder and wanders off.  
  
PK’s known this whole time that was probably the truth. But he’s still surprised by how hard it is to hear.  
  
Carey’s watching him, his expression soft and almost surprised. PK looks away; he knows he can’t keep his unhappiness off his face.  
  
"Are you disappointed?" Carey asks.  
  
PK forces a laugh. “Yeah, a little. Sorry, man.”  
  
"No, why are you sorry?"  
  
"Because I figure you’re not disappointed?"  
  
Carey hesitates. “How much do you remember about what happened?”  
  
PK frowns. He remembers being really happy, he remembers thinking that getting married to Carey was a great idea. “I guess I just thought I really wanted to do it, and you went along with it.” Like always.  
  
Carey shakes his head. “You kept hanging out with Tavares and Benn, and trying to teach Crosby how to dance, and I kept dragging you away to hang out with me—” Carey’s face is getting pink “—and Lu said if I wanted you so much, I should put a ring on it. So I did.”  
  
PK blinks. “I— you wanted to marry me?”  
  
"Yeah," Carey says. "I thought you were the one who was just, just going along with the joke."  
  
"No, I did want to get married! I do—" PK stops. "Um."  
  
Carey starts smiling. He takes his Olympic ring off and grabs PK’s left hand. “Pernell Karl Subban, will you marry me?”  
  
"Yes," PK says. His whole face is hot, and he can’t stop smiling.  
  
Carey slides his ring onto PK’s finger.  
  
"This would be more romantic if you were on your knees," PK says.  
  
Carey looks up and meets his eyes. “Later,” he says.  
  
"Okay," PK says faintly.  
  
Carey kisses him, quick and fierce, and PK leans after him when he pulls back.  
  
"Lu’s still here," Carey says, grinning.  
  
"No, we’re doing it right this time," PK says.  
  
Carey’s smile goes soft, and he kisses PK’s knuckles. “Yeah, we are.”


	15. Carts/Richie, Thanksgiving

**_November 28, 2013_**  
  
Brownie has everyone over to his house for Thanksgiving. It’s not real Thanksgiving, of course, but Jeff likes it anyway. Good food, hanging out with the guys and their families, what’s not to like?  
  
Brownie makes them do the cheesy say-what-you’re-thankful-for thing before they eat.  
  
"I’m thankful you’re all here today," Nicole says, and leans over to kiss Brownie.  
  
Jeff looks down and tries not to make a dumb, sappy face at them.  
  
"Keep your eyes on your own plate unless you want to lose them," Richie says in a quiet, fake-pleasant voice.  
  
Jeff bites the inside of his lip so he doesn’t say something bitchy back. He doesn’t want to be that couple that ruins everyone’s holiday by rehashing an old argument.  
  
"Carts?" Brownie says.  
  
Jeff looks up and blinks. “Uh, I’m thankful I’m healthy again.”  
  
His foot twinges, and he wonders if he jinxed himself.  
  
Richie says something about family, and the conversation moves on.  
  
The car ride home is silent and strained, until Jeff finally can’t take it anymore.  
  
"I don’t care what you eat at stupid American Thanksgiving."  
  
Richie snorts. “Sorry for being sensitive,” he says sarcastically. “You’ve been on my case all summer about training and conditioning, so I’m sure you can see how I’d make that mistake.”  
  
Jeff takes a slow, careful breath. “Richie—”  
  
"Look, just because we fuck around doesn’t mean this is any of your business."  
  
Jeff flinches. He doesn’t know how to get Richie to take this seriously, to stop taking L.A. for granted. “I’d be bugging you about this even if we weren’t— fucking.”  
  
Richie stops the car, staring straight ahead. “Maybe we should put that to the test.”  
  
They’re in front of Jeff’s house, not Richie’s. Jeff’s stomach clenches.  
  
Richie finally looks at him. His eyes narrow and he opens his mouth, and Jeff gets out of the car, because he knows they can’t come back from whatever he’s going to say.  
  
Maybe it’s too late anyway.

  
**_November 27, 2014_**  
  
"So everyone has to say one thing they’re thankful for," Brownie says. "And it can’t be winning the Cup."  
  
There’s ripple of laughter around the table. Jeff’s sitting between Pears and Toff. It’s been long enough that no one gives him a weird look when he doesn’t sit down next to Richie.  
  
"I’m thankful we’re all here together today," Nicole says, like she always does, smiling warm and happy at Brownie like she always does. Jeff meets Richie’s eyes across the table on accident, and something twists in his chest.  
  
"It can’t be winning a gold medal, either, Carts," Brownie says.  
  
"Oh, then I got nothing."  
  
Brownie mimes throwing a wadded up napkin at him.  
  
"Okay, okay—" He catches Richie’s eyes again. "I agree with Nicole, I’m glad we’re all here today."  
  
Richie doesn’t quite wince. He looks away.  
  
"I’m thankful I’m here instead of in Manch," Tyler says.  
  
Brownie throws up his hands “Nothing hockey-related at all!”  
  
Jeff trades childhood Thanksgiving stories with the rookies, talks to Jackie about the caramel apple pie he brought (he got the recipe off Pinterest), and has a very serious conversation with the Brown children about Frozen and whether Elsa would play forward or goalie.  
  
He doesn’t talk to Richie, but he’s conscious of him the whole time.    
  
Jeff makes the rookies clean up, bullying them into clearing the table while he loads the dishwasher.  
  
There’s a lull where he’s the only one in the kitchen, then Richie comes in with a stack of dessert plates.  
  
"You lost the rookies to floor hockey with the kids," he says.  
  
He’s smiling a little, and Jeff feels that twinge in his chest again, sharp and inarticulate. He puts the plates in the sink and pulls Richie into a hug.  
  
"Ooof," Richie says.  
  
"I am really fucking grateful you didn’t get bought out, you dick," Jeff says.  
  
Richie goes limp and his arms come up to wrap around Jeff. “Oh, fuck, me too,” he says into Jeff’s shoulder.  
  
They stand like that for a long while. Finally, Richie takes a shaky breath and says, “I’m sorry I was an asshole last year.”  
  
"Good," Jeff says.  
  
Richie huffs out a laugh and takes a step back. He opens his mouth, and Joner comes in with an arm full of wine glasses.  
  
"What should I do with these?"  
  
"Counter," Jeff says. "The dishwasher’s full."  
  
"Um," Joner says.  
  
Jeff rolls his eyes and takes the ones in the crook of his elbow. They finally get it sorted out and Joner goes back out.  
  
Richie’s watching him with a soft expression on his face. Jeff swallows and turns on the tap.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I’m sorry I said we were just fucking around," Richie says. "I know it was more than that for you."  
  
Jeff nods, keeping his eyes on the sink.  
  
"It was more than that for me, too, and I want, I want—"  
  
Jeff looks up and Richie bites his lip.  
  
"Yeah, okay," Jeff says, and pulls Richie into a kiss.  
  
It feels so good, so familiar and right, kissing Richie in the kitchen with the sounds of their team in the background, everyone laughing and happy.  
  
"It’s a Thanksgiving miracle," Jeff says when he lifts his head.  
  
Richie pokes him in the gut. “Shut up, this isn’t even real Thanksgiving.”  
  
Jeff’s grateful anyway.


	16. PK/Carey, next door neighbors AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Then explain why he's always shirtless whenever he answers the door."

"Maybe he’s a stripper," Gally says.  
  
"He’s not a stripper," Carey says.  
  
"He could be." Gally leans further out the window to watch Carey’s new neighbor mow the lawn shirtless.  
  
"Stop staring at my neighbor," Carey says.  
  
"You stop staring."  
  
Subban — call me PK! — stops and waves at them. Carey steps away from the window. Gally waves back.  
  
A little while later, PK knocks on the door.  
  
"Hey, man, do you want me to do you?" he asks, grinning.  
  
"Um," Carey says. He tries valiantly to ignore Gally’s sudden, barely muffled giggles. "What?"  
  
"I’ve got the mower out already, do you want me to do your lawn?"`  
  
Carey also tries valiantly to keep his eyes on PK’s face. “No, I’m good, thanks.”  
  
PK’s smile barely dims. “Cool, just thought I’d ask.”  
  
Carey does let himself stare at the smooth flex of PK’s back muscles, gleaming with sweat, as he walks away. Gally’s not wrong.  
  
When he looks out the window later, PK is mowing Mrs. Eslinger’s lawn across the street. Still shirtless. Mrs. Eslinger may be close to ninety, but she looks like she appreciates the view.  
  
Carey closes the blinds.  
  
*  
  
It’s not like PK is _always_ shirtless.  
  
When he introduced himself to Carey that spring, he was fully clothed. So Carey had mostly noticed his smile, how energetic and outgoing he’d seemed for a guy in the middle of a move. PK had invited him over for a housewarming party that weekend, and Carey had been too unprepared to say no.  
  
Carey had gone, had one beer, told PK he had a lovely house, and left.  
  
He runs into PK sometimes when they’re both out jogging. When the weather started warming up, PK stopped wearing a shirt. Which is totally reasonable, and not at all why Carey starts jogging in the morning more.  
  
It’s also totally reasonable for PK to wear whatever he wants in the privacy of his own home in the summer, and Carey shouldn’t have been so flustered when he went return some of PK’s mis-delivered mail and PK answered the door in nothing but board shorts.  
  
(“Maybe he’s an underwear model,” Chucky says. “An underwear model who works from home.”  
  
"He’s not an underwear model," Carey says. He doesn’t know why he told anyone at the station about his neighbor who is always shirtless.)  
  
And it’s not _completely_ unreasonable for PK to knock on Carey’s kitchen door at the crack of dawn wearing nothing but a pair of bright red boxer briefs and clutching the morning newspaper.  
  
"Hi, so, I kind of locked myself out?" PK says.  
  
Carey looks him up and down and feels his mouth go dry.  
  
"I forgot the front door locks automatically and the paper was a little further out on the porch this morning, so."  
  
Carey drags his eyes back up to PK’s face. “So,” he repeats blankly.  
  
"Could I use your phone to call my friend? He’s got my spare keys."  
  
"Sure," Carey says, because he’s not an asshole.  
  
"Thanks, man," PK says.  
  
Carey starts the coffee while PK uses the phone. The dogs bounce between the two of them, excited by this change in the morning routine.  
  
"He’ll be here in twenty minutes," PK says, scratching Duke behind the ears. "I can, uh, go hang out on my porch."  
  
Carey rolls his eyes and ducks into the laundry room. He digs up an almost-clean pair of sweats. “You can hang out here,” he says, tossing them at PK. “I don’t have to leave for work for another half hour anyway.”  
  
"Awesome, thanks so much," PK says, pulling on the sweats. "I don’t think Mrs. Eslinger’s heart could take it if she saw me hanging out on my porch in my underwear."  
  
Carey snorts.  
  
"So what do you do?" PK asks.  
  
They kill the twenty minutes easily, talking about Carey’s job as a paramedic, about PK’s work with a small independent dance company. (Gally was almost right; PK is a dancer.) They talk about Carey’s family in Anahim Lake and PK’s family in Montreal.  
  
Carey doesn’t let himself think at all about the fabric of his sweatpants stretched tight across PK’s thighs.  
  
*  
  
Thanksgiving kind of sneaks up on Carey, which is why he’s knocking on PK’s door the morning before he’s supposed to go home.  
  
PK’s shirtless and sweaty. Carey is expecting it at least this time, since he went over when he saw PK get back from his run.  
  
"I’m sorry to ask, but my usual dog-walker is completely booked, and the guys I’d normally get to do it are all going to be out of town," Carey says. "Could you check on my dogs while I’m gone? It’s only two days—"  
  
"Sure," PK says. "No problem!"  
  
"I, great, thank you," Carey says. "It’s just a walk twice a day, and—"  
  
"Dude, just text me the ridiculously long and detailed list of instructions I know you have," PK says.  
   
He’s grinning, and god, it’s really unfair that someone with his chest and abs has a smile like that, too.  
  
*  
  
It’s not that Carey is worried, exactly, but it does make him feel better than PK texts him updates about the dogs.  
  
The last one is a selfie of PK on Carey’s couch with the dogs sprawled over his legs. _post dinner nap_ , it says.  
  
It makes Carey’s stomach flutter in a weird, soft way.  
  
*  
  
His flight back is delayed, of course, so it’s late when he finally gets home. He’s still fumbling with his keys when PK opens the door.  
  
"Hey," PK says. "I wasn’t sure when you’d be getting in, so I took the dogs out for one last pee before bed."  
  
Carey blinks at him. It’s probably the exhaustion that makes him say, “You’re wearing a shirt.”  
  
He doesn’t mean to sound that disappointed.  
  
PK looks down at his hoodie. “I could take it off,” he says.  
  
He’s smiling, but it’s a little hesitant, almost hopeful around the edges.  
  
Carey looks at him, really looks. “Okay,” he says.  
  
PK’s smile blooms huge and wide and he steps back, out of the doorway, already reaching for the hem of the sweatshirt.

*  
  
Later, he tells Carey, “I did it to get your attention, being shirtless all the time. Did it work?”  
  
Carey kisses him to avoid admitting that yeah, it totally worked.


	17. Lu/Lack, walking in on the other jerking off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _On his relationship with Luongo:_
> 
> _"He was my first roomate at my first training camp, so he’s always been good to me." ([Source](http://www.nicholsonhockey.com/worthreading/2014/4/23/canucks-lack-soaking-up-every-nhl-moment))_

Training camp is going pretty good. It’s an _NHL_ training camp, and Eddie hasn’t embarrassed himself, so really, it’s going great.  
  
Eddie flops down on his bed, stretches his arms above his head, feeling that deep, good ache of muscles worked hard.  
  
Lu comes out of the bathroom in a clean shirt, hair slicked back.  
  
"Going out for dinner?" Eddie asks.  
  
"Yeah, I guess," Lu says vaguely. "You?"  
  
"Mmm, yes," Eddie says.  
  
Lu gives him a nod and heads out.  
  
The door closes behind him, and Eddie is alone for what seems like the first time in forever. His phone buzzes. It’s probably a couple of the Wolves guys making dinner plans, but he suddenly doesn’t want to go out. He wants to order room service and watch terrible reality tv and jerk off.  
  
Maybe not in that order.  
  
He gets up and pulls the scratchy comforter off the bed, digs the tube of unscented lotion out of his bag. (The air at the rink is very drying, okay, he needs to be prepared. He and every guy he’s ever played with.)  
  
He strips down to just his boxers and lies back down on the bed. The sheets are smooth and cool against his skin. He can take his time with it, and just thinking that seems to make everything more sensitive. His nipples tighten up in the air conditioning and he rubs the pad of his thumb over them. It sends a little bolt of heat down to his balls.  
  
He smooths his hands down his ribs and over his abs, drags his palms over the skin of his inner thighs.  
  
He flips through a couple of fantasies in his head before he settles on that guy he picked up in Chicago (Andy? Aaron?), the one with the dark hair and the tattoos and the soft, pink mouth, who blew him in a bathroom in Boystown. He pictures Aaron bending over him, touching him like this, just light, teasing touches that make his stomach flutter and tense, make his dick start to fill.  
  
When it’s not quite enough, Eddie reaches down to palm his hardening cock through his boxers. He inhales and rocks up against his own hand.  
  
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and wriggles out of them. He wraps his hand around his cock, tugging his foreskin back. All the American boys (and some of the Canadians) he’s hooked up with have been cut, and they all seem to want to play with it. It’s easy to pretend it’s Aaron teasing him like this, tugging his foreskin up and smoothing it back down again, working the tip of his finger under it to rub at the head of his cock.  
  
Eddie’s a little breathless now, heat pooling in his belly. He squirts some lotion onto his hand, not a lot, just enough to soften the rough skin of his palm.  
  
He starts stroking himself in earnest, slow, steady pulls. It feels so much better than a rushed jerkoff session in the shower.  
  
He’s so caught up in it, he doesn’t hear the door open.  
  
He hears it slam shut, though.  
  
He freezes, his eyes flying open, his hand still wrapped around his hard cock.  
  
Lu’s standing there, a couple of feet from the bed, eyebrows up.  
  
Lu snorts. “Please, don’t stop on my account, kid,” he says.  
  
Eddie’s heart is pounding like crazy, and weirdly, it just seems to make that tension in his gut coil tighter. “Okay,” he says.  
  
He closes his eyes and starts moving his hand again.  
  
It’s, what is the word in English — playing chicken? Lu is bluffing, teasing him, when he says keep going, and Eddie isn’t going to blush and run away.  
  
He’s going to make Lu blush and run away. Or at least make Lu throw a pillow at him and tell him to finish in the bathroom.  
  
He draws one knee up, puts his other hand behind his head, showing off the lines of his body. His cock is hard and heavy in his grasp, leaking wetly against his palm, but he can’t lose himself in it anymore. He is hyper-aware of Lu’s presence, the quiet rustle when he shifts his weight, the steady sound of his breath.  
  
Lu’s not telling him to stop.  
  
Eddie shivers all over. Lu is just standing there, watching him, and it makes him feel both incredibly turned on and horribly self-conscious. He strokes himself faster, but he can feel his orgasm slipping away. He needs, he needs something more, or different.  
  
He slides his middle finger into his mouth, getting it sloppy wet, then reaches down between his legs. He presses the tip of his finger inside himself, but the angle just isn’t right.  
  
A frustrated whimper slips out of his mouth and he bites his lip. He’s breathing fast and shallow, his whole body strung tight and oversensitive, chasing something just out of his reach. And Lu is still watching him.  
  
Then he feels the mattress dip.  
  
"Hey, shhh, it’s okay," Lu says.  
  
Eddie can’t bring himself to open his eyes. He hears the pop of the lotion bottle, and then Lu is pressing one slick finger against his asshole, nudging in against Eddie’s finger.  
  
Eddie gasps and his hips jerk up into the touch.  
  
Lu’s finger is long and slim and it sinks all the way into him, exactly what he’s missing. Lu twists his hand and pulls out slowly, then slides in again, stroking over that spot that sends starbursts of heat through him.  
  
Eddie moans, his grip on his cock tightening.  
  
"Yeah," Lu says. "Just like that."  
  
Eddie gives himself a few more rough, shaky strokes, and comes all over his stomach. Lu crooks his finger, dragging over his prostate, and it pulls another weak spurt of come out of him.  
  
Eddie pants for breath, riding the long wave of his orgasm. He’s distantly aware of Lu easing his finger out, and standing up.  
  
Eddie hears the water come on in the bathroom and blinks his eyes open slowly. There’s a thread of embarrassment creeping in around the afterglow. He bites his lip.  
  
Lu comes back with a wet washcloth. He’s hard, the line of his dick visible under his slacks, and it makes Eddie feel a little better.  
  
Eddie sits up against the headboard and takes the washcloth, wipes the come off his stomach. He watches Lu from under his lashes.  
  
"Do you, I could…" He tips his chin towards Lu’s crotch and trails off.  
  
Lu looks at him for a long moment. “Tell you what, kid,” he says, with a slow, sly grin. “You make it to the big show, and I’ll let you suck my dick.”  
  
Eddie feels a hot shiver of something like anticipation run down his spine. He lifts his chin and meets Lu’s eyes. “Deal.”


	18. Seth Jones/Shea Weber, 2018 Olympics

Shea watches Team USA play Russia. It’s a good game, even if it’s one the US completely dominates. Ryan’s out there, the veteran presence now, but the player Shea can’t look away from is Seth.  
  
He’s never played against Seth before, not for real. He’s never watched Seth like an opponent instead of a teammate, a D-partner, a player he captains.  
  
It’s a revelation to see him like this, so solid and confident and focused. He doesn’t have a letter, but a couple of times, he’s the one setting the play before a face off.  
  
When the game is over, when the players are milling around waiting for the handshake line to start, Seth looks up in the stands.  
  
Shea waves at him. Seth smiles back, bright and fierce, and points at him.  
  
 _You’re next,_ he mouths.  
  
He’s definitely not Shea’s rookie anymore.  
  
*  
  
Seth kissed him at the end of his rookie year.  
  
When the season was done, Shea had the team over to his place for a barbecue, a kind of closure before they all scatter for the summer.  
  
Seth stayed after everyone else left, helping him clean up.   
  
Seth brought an almost empty bowl of potato salad into the kitchen. Shea smiled absently at him. When he reached out to take it, Seth leaned in and kissed him.  
  
Shea froze with shock. Seth’s mouth was soft and hesitant against his, and it took Shea a moment before he was able to step back.  
  
Seth watched him with wide eyes, hopeful and scared in equal parts, and he looked so young it made Shea’s bones hurt.  
  
"No," Shea said. "This is, I’m—" _too old, too fucked up,_ “your captain. We can’t.”  
  
Seth looked down at his feet. “Sorry,” he said, almost inaudible.  
  
"It’s okay," Shea said. "I’m not mad."  
  
Seth nodded.   
  
_You’ll get over it_ , Shea wanted to tell him. _I did_. But he didn’t think Seth wanted to hear that.  
  
"I’m gonna get the rest of the dishes," Seth said, and walked out of the kitchen.  
  
Seth didn’t text him or e-mail him over the summer. But when he came back, he smiled at Shea like nothing happened. Like Shea was just another teammate.  
  
Like Shea had hoped he would.  
  
*  
  
Beating Russia means Team USA sweeps their group, the same as Canada. Everyone is amped up on a combination of victory and anticipation. Sid drags Shea down to the lounge to play ping pong.  
  
Shea plays a couple of rounds and then hands his paddle off to McKinnon.  
  
Roman finds him in the crowd later. He’s grinning.  
  
"Don’t look now, but Seth is making out with the US figure skating team," Roman says.  
  
"Men’s or women’s?" Shea asks.  
  
Roman cranes his neck. “Pairs, I think.”  
  
Shea looks, too, in time to see a dark haired woman on her tip toes kissing Seth. He has to look closely to see that her partner has his hand on Seth’s hip.  
  
She breaks the kiss and Seth smiles down at her. Then, like he can feel Shea watching, he looks up and catches Shea’s eyes. His smile fades a little and he licks his lips.  
  
Shea forces a grin and turns away. “I’m beat,” he says. “I’m gonna call it a night.”  
  
Roman eyes him, but all he says is, “Good night.”  
  
Shea works his way out of the lounge and starts heading back to the dorms.  
  
"Shea!" Seth yells after him.  
  
He turns around. Seth catches up with him. His face is serious and intent, his body tense, and something about it makes Shea’s greeting catch in his throat.  
  
"You’re not my captain right now," Seth says. "We’re not even teammates."  
  
The words hit him like a bolt of heat.

It’s not true, really. He is and they are, and this is just a pause.  
  
Shea kisses him anyway.  
  
Seth gasps into it and kisses him back, fierce and demanding.  
  
Shea doesn’t remember most of the walk back to his room. He texts Sid in the stairwell, one hand still tangled with Seth’s, _dont come back tonight_.  
  
(Whatever, Sid owes him from Vancouver.)  
  
Seth kisses him again, pressed up against the inside of his door. They peel each other’s clothes off in between kisses, fast and clumsy.  
  
Shea tries to slow down. He wants to get his hands on every inch of Seth’s skin, figure out all his secret sensitive spots, but Seth pushes the pace, kissing him like they’re running out of time.  
  
When they’re both naked, Seth pulls him down to the bed. Shea catches his weight on one hand, stretches his body over Seth’s. They’re the same height, Seth’s body a long line of hot skin and solid muscle under him.  
  
Seth slides his hand down Shea’s back, palms his ass. He rolls his hips up against Shea and Shea groans their cocks drag together.   
  
Seth lifts his chin and Shea kisses him as they rock together.  
  
"Want you to fuck me," Seth grits out.  
  
Shea drags in a sharp breath. “Seth…”  
  
"I know, I know," Seth says. He closes his eyes. "Just — don’t stop."  
  
Shea kisses him again. He reaches between them, wraps his hand around both of their cocks. Seth makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat. He grabs the back of Shea’s neck and kisses back, thrusting up into Shea’s grip.  
  
Shea matches his rhythm, his palm getting slicker as his precome mixes with Seth’s.   
  
"Shea," Seth says, his voice thin and strained.   
  
"Yeah, c’mon, I got you," Shea murmurs, rubs his thumb just under the head of Seth’s cock.  
  
Seth lets out low, hurt sound and comes all over Shea’s hand. His hand is still on Shea’s neck, hard enough to bruise, and Shea kisses him through it.  
  
Shea can feel his own orgasm building up at the base of his spine. He shifts his weight so he can rub off against the cut of Seth’s hip.  
  
Seth sighs and spreads his legs wider. His mouth has lost that desperate urgency, and he kisses Shea slow and almost gentle. All the tension inside him unravels and Shea comes, a long, slow wave of heat.  
  
He presses his forehead against Seth’s while he waits for his breathing to steady. Finally he rolls to one side. He leaves one hand on Seth’s belly.  
  
"I should go," Seth says to the ceiling.  
  
Shea rubs his nose against Seth’s shoulder. “Curfew?”  
  
"No, I just…" Seth sits up and swings his feet over the edge of the bed.  
  
"Seth?"   
  
Seth lets out a shaky, unamused laugh. He doesn’t look at Shea. “I’ve never wished you weren’t my captain as much as I do now.”  
  
Shea feels something twist deep in his chest. He looks at the smooth expanse of Seth’s back, and it seems like there is both not enough time to make this decision, and also all the time in the world.  
  
"I want to change the terms of our bet," Shea says.  
  
That does make Seth look at him. “What?”  
  
"You know — we said loser wears the winner’s jersey when we’re back in Nashville." Seth starts to frown and Shea swallows, goes on in a rush, "I think the loser should top."  
  
Seth goes still.   
  
Shea thinks about it another second. “Loser can still wear the jersey, actually.”  
  
"Why?" Seth says.  
  
Shea’s pretty sure he’s asking _why do you want to change the bet_ , not _why can the loser still wear the jersey_ , but the answer is the same. “Because I want you wear my jersey while you fuck me.”  
  
Seth inhales, his eyes widening as he searches Shea’s face. “I — really?”  
  
Shea looks back, steady and calm. “Yeah.”  
  
Seth exhales slowly. “Okay. Yeah, okay.”  
  
"So it’s a bet?" Shea holds out his hand.  
  
"Yeah," Seth says. "You’re on."  
  
He’s starting to smile. He shakes Shea’s hand, and Shea doesn’t let go, tugs him in until Seth leans down and kisses him, fierce and sweet.


	19. Jamie/Tyler, superhero AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt:  
>  _What about a Tyler/Jamie Superhero AU, where one of them has a secret identity as a superhero, and tries hard to keep it from the other but after a while, a new villain comes to town and plots to take out our Superhero by using his love against him, and perhaps the normal one is taken hostage by the Villain as a way to bait/control the Superhero._

Boston sends Tyler to Dallas for his own protection. Boston needs grinders who can hit hard and take a lot of damage. Charisma doesn’t really fit in with their style. He tries not to take it personally. Hell, they sent Kessel to Toronto when they couldn’t make his telepathy work for them.  
  
But it stings a little. Like his gift isn’t good enough.  
  
They send Pevs with him, which is good on the one hand, because Pevs. On the other, he knows they only sent him too because Pevs is hurt, the kind of long-term thing that’s not gonna get better. It’s another reminder that Boston thinks Tyler’s too fragile to handle the job.  
  
Tyler’s gift is being charming. To a supernatural degree. He can make anyone fall in love with him. He can smile and flirt and make them forget who he is, why they’re pissed at him, what they wanted to do with that gun in their hand. He can say, _do this one thing for me_ , and they will, no matter what he asks. He just needs time, and a clear line of sight, and enough quiet so they can hear his voice.  
  
Boston didn’t know how to use his talents, but he finds out pretty quickly that Dallas does.  
  
Dallas has a lot of guys like him, guys with quiet, subtle gifts. Val is unbelievably fast. Trevor is some kind of tech whisperer; Tyler’s half-convinced he could get electrons to flow backwards.  
  
And if they need heavy hitters, they can always call Perkins and her rookie McBride in from San Antonio.  
  
Dallas also has a lot of guys who have no gifts at all. Or at least nothing out of the ordinary.  
  
One of them is Jamie Benn.  
  
*  
  
His first year in Boston, Tyler learned to control his gift. Or really, learned that he should control it. (Tyler was careless with a lot of people’s hearts when he was young. He’s not that much older, but he is a lot more careful.)  
  
It’s automatic now, to hold that part of himself back. He can shake people’s hands and smile at them, and not influence them at all.  
  
But god, he kind of wants to with Jamie. Or, no, not really — he just wants Jamie to like him. Really like him, not just because Tyler made him.  
  
Weirdly, Jamie seems to like him anyway. (Sometimes, in the middle of the night, a tiny thread of doubt makes Tyler wonder if his control is really as good as he thinks it is. He forces it down, drowns it out by running through earthquake and nuclear bomb drill scenarios.)  
  
If Tyler wasn’t — if things were different, Tyler would ask Jamie out for real. But he can be friends with Jamie and hide this part of himself. He couldn’t hide it if Jamie was anything more.  
  
So they’ll be friends.  
  
And Tyler will be happy, because Dallas needs him. Because he’s finally found a place where his gift can make a difference.  
  
*  
  
Tyler’s phone wakes him up at one in the morning. He frowns at the screen. It’s Jordie.  
  
"Hey, Segs, is Jamie with you?" Jordie asks.  
  
Tyler clears his throat, rubs at his eyes. “No, why?”  
  
"He, uh, he went for a run before dinner, and he isn’t back yet, and he’s not answering his phone."  
  
"Shit." Tyler sits bolt upright, a cold lurch of fear twisting his gut.  
  
"It’s probably nothing, he probably forgot to charge it again," Jordie’s voice is tight with anxiety, but he’s trying to reassure Tyler. "I’ll call a couple of other guys."  
  
"Sure," Tyler says. "Okay."  
  
He sits there for a long moment, trying to talk himself out of this sense of dread. Then he gives in and calls Ruff.  
  
*  
  
Ruff tracks Jamie’s phone and directs Tyler to it. It’s along one of the jogging paths that Jamie likes, but it’s tucked up in the crook of a tree, not lying on the ground.  
  
Val reaches up and grabs it.  
  
The passcode is disabled. There’s a bunch of missed calls and texts from Jordie, and one text from an unknown number.  
  
Tyler opens that one.  
  
_watch the video tyler_ , it says.  
  
Val swears under his breath in Russian.  
  
Through his earbud, Ruff says, “Wait until you bring it back, it could—”  
  
Tyler finds the newest video on Jamie’s phone and presses play.  
  
A familiar face fills up the screen and Tyler almost pukes.  
  
"Tyler," he says, and the camera sweeps down to show Jamie lying unconscious on the trail. "He’s quite handsome, in a kind of muscle-bound, doe-eyed way. I can see why you like him. Wouldn’t you like him more with some better muscle definition?"  
  
He reaches down and strokes one fingertip over Jamie’s stomach.  
  
"Don’t," Tyler whispers.  
  
The man turns the camera around again and smiles like he heard Tyler. “I’ll trade you. A simple swap. You for him.”  
  
The phone buzzes in his hand and Tyler almost drops it.  
  
"See you there, Tyler."  
  
The video ends. There’s a new message from the unknown number, an address and a time.  
  
"Who is?" Val asks.  
  
"I don’t know," Tyler says. "In Boston, we just called him the Surgeon."  
  
*  
  
"We’ll get him back, Tyler," Ruff says.  
  
His calmness doesn’t make Tyler feel any better. At least Pevs looks as sick as Tyler feels.  
  
"You don’t understand who you’re dealing with," Tyler says. "I don’t think my gift even works right on him. I was supposed to talk him into letting some of his victims go, the ones that were still alive, but he wouldn’t listen. He just got obsessed with me. Chara and Bergy and Pevs had to come in and get me."  
  
"I’ve read the files from Boston, I know what he’s capable of."  
  
"Uh, we haven’t," Trevor says, waving his hand between himself and Val. "Why do you call him the Surgeon? That sounds creepy as fuck."  
  
"He’s kind of like a shape-shifter, except he changes other people’s bodies," Pevs says.  
  
"Into what?" Trevor asks.  
  
"Whatever he wants," Tyler says.  
  
"They die?" Val asks in a small voice.  
  
"Some of them,"  
  
"He needs to touch them, as far as we can tell," Ruff says. "Which limits what he can do in a combat scenario. This isn’t any different than any of the other adversaries we’ve faced—"  
  
"He’s why Pevs has a fucking hole in his heart!" Tyler shouts. "Boston could barely handle him, how are we supposed to?"  
  
"We’re better than Boston," Ruff says. He gives Tyler a small, wry smile, reaches out to squeeze his shoulder. "Tyler. I’m going to call Jia and Kayla in from San Antonio. They’ll be here in three hours. We’re going to come up with a plan, and we’re going to get him back. Go lie down, rest, I need you fresh when we’re ready to move."  
  
Tyler nods, looking down at his hands.  
  
"Good," Ruff says. He turns back to the screen, already pulling up files on his tablet.  
  
Jamie’s phone is still on the briefing room table in front of Tyler.  
  
Tyler picks it up and replies to the unknown number. _ur not subtle. theyll be waiting for u. let me come 2 u._ He sends his own number next, then deletes the thread.  
  
He puts the phone down on the table and walks out.  
  
Before he even gets to his room, his phone buzzes.  
  
*  
  
The new address the Surgeon sends him is an expensive high rise. There’s no guard at the desk. Tyler walks towards the elevators. Before he pushes the button, the one at the end opens up.  
  
He steps inside. He didn’t get a floor number, but after a second, the penthouse button lights up and the doors close.  
  
The Surgeon is waiting for him when he steps out of the elevator. The penthouse is an open expanse of chrome and glass and black leather furniture. Tyler sweeps his eyes over everything, but there’s no sign of Jamie.  
  
"Tyler. I wasn’t sure about the beard at first, but I think it’s growing on me."  
  
The Surgeon looks like a normal guy, handsome in a sharp-featured way, with tousled blond hair and pale blue eyes. The kind of guy who smiles at his own pun.  
  
"Thanks. Where’s Jamie? Can I see him?" Tyler lets go of his control and lets his gift spill out into his voice, hoping against hope.  
  
The Surgeon smiles. “Of course.”  
  
He leads Tyler down a short hall to a door. The door opens onto a white-tiled room. Jamie is strapped to a table in the middle of the room, a gag across his mouth.  
  
Tyler swallows against a surge of nausea. He’s flashing back to a similar room in Boston, and he fights to keep his breathing steady.  
  
"I’m here now, so you can let him go, right?"  
  
The Surgeon gives him a pitying look. “Oh, Tyler, you know I can’t. He’ll go straight to the police.”  
  
Jamie is awake. He’s staring at Tyler with huge, appalled eyes, but he looks okay, he doesn’t look hurt or, or _changed_.  
  
Tyler drags his eyes back to the Surgeon. “He won’t, I can convince him not to. Please.”  
  
Something flickers in the Surgeon’s eyes, but it’s gone in a heartbeat. “I’m afraid not.”  
  
Tyler drops to his knees. “Please,” he says. He holds out his hand pleadingly.  
  
The Surgeon smiles, slow and satisfied. “Oh, Tyler.”  
  
He steps closer and takes Tyler’s hand.  
  
Tyler grips him tight. This is the last thing he can try. Skin contact strengthens the effect of his gift. He pours all of his power into his voice, into that contact.  
  
"Let him go," he says, and the Surgeon blinks.  
  
"All right," he says, almost dazed.  
  
Tyler stands up carefully, leads him over to the table. He doesn’t let go of the Surgeon’s hand. The Surgeon frowns down at Jamie.  
  
"Undo the straps," Tyler says.  
  
The Surgeon fumbles one-handed with the buckles, and Tyler helps him. Jamie is still staring at them with that horrified expression. As soon as they free his wrist, Jamie yanks off the gag and takes a huge, ragged breath.  
  
"Are you okay?" Tyler asks quickly. "Are you hurt? Does anything feel wrong?"  
  
Jamie looks at him like he’s crazy but he shakes his head.  
  
The Surgeon is frowning again.  
  
"Now his ankles," Tyler orders, and his face smooths out.  
  
When he’s completely free, Jamie sits up.  
  
"Tyler, what the fuck is going on?" he asks.  
  
"It’s okay," Tyler says. "It’s gonna be okay. I need you to take my phone, go downstairs, and call Ruff. He’s going to straighten everything out."  
  
Jamie shakes his head wildly. “I’m not going to leave you.”  
  
Tyler barely stops himself from using the voice on Jamie. He pulls it back. “Please,” he says.  
  
Jamie’s scowling now. It would be so much easier, is the thing, if Tyler just made him obey. He could tell Jamie to forget everything, too, and nothing would have to change.  
  
The Surgeon shifts restlessly next to him. Tyler turns his attention back to him. “Be still,” he says, and the Surgeon stops moving.  
  
Jamie’s face is sliding back into that appalled expression.  
  
"I can’t leave him," Tyler says. "I can’t stop touching him or he’s — he won’t listen. If you won’t go downstairs, could you just go into the living room and make the call?"  
  
Jamie gives him a long look, then nods slowly. Tyler holds his phone out. Jamie takes and steps carefully around him.  
  
Tyler looks at the Surgeon. “Do you have a gun?” he asks.  
  
A shadow moves across the Surgeon’s face, but he says, like Tyler’s forcing it out of him, “Yes.”  
  
"Good," Tyler says. "Show me."  
  
The Surgeon leads him to his bedroom. He opens a safe in the closet and pulls out a small black case.  
  
"Is it loaded?" Tyler asks.  
  
The Surgeon shakes his head jerkily.  
  
"Load it for me," Tyler says.  
  
The Surgeon does. Tyler can feel him fighting it. He holds on so tightly it makes his own hand hurt.  
  
"Tyler."  
  
Tyler flinches. It’s Jamie. He sounds hurt. Horrified.  
  
"I have to," Tyler says, and his voice cracks. He swallows. "I can’t let him—"  
  
Jamie comes into the bedroom, his hand outstretched, and Tyler snaps, “Don’t touch him.”  
  
Jamie freezes. “Tyler, don’t do this.”  
  
Tyler stares at the Surgeon and the Surgeon stares back, his hand set gently, obediently on the gun.  
  
Then Pevs knocks on the window.  
  
Tyler’s eyes snap to the window. Pevs is dangling there, in full recon gear. He taps the window again, shave-and-a-haircut.  
  
"Oh, shit, get down," Tyler says and throws himself flat behind the bed. He yanks the Surgeon down with him, and Jamie follows a second later.  
  
Then the window blows out.  
  
When the glass has settled, Tyler sits up.  
  
Pevs is standing in the bedroom now. He leans out and grabs Val’s hand, and then Val is kneeling next to Tyler, looking at the Surgeon.  
  
"Don’t touch him," Tyler says automatically.  
  
Val wiggles his gloved fingers at him, then holds up a roll of duct tape. “I go fast,” he says.  
  
"Okay," Tyler says.  
  
"Val?" Jamie says blankly. "Pevs?"  
  
Val moves so fast his hands are a blur. The Surgeon’s legs disappear in a cocoon of silver duct tape that stretches up to his hips.  
  
"Sit up," Tyler says.  
  
Val tapes the arm and the hand Tyler isn’t holding to the Surgeon’s chest. Tyler shifts his grip to the back of his neck.  
  
"Shhh, hold still," he says.  
  
It takes two rolls of tape, but the Surgeon is finally completely immobilized. The only exposed skin is his throat and face.  
  
Pevs comes over, a syringe in his hand.  
  
"Go to sleep," Tyler says.  
  
The Surgeon’s eyes drift shut and he goes limp. Pevs gives him the sedative, and Tyler can finally let go.  
  
"Trevor’s talking to the security system, seeing if he can get the elevators to take us down," Pevs says.  
  
Tyler nods. He can feel the looming adrenaline crash, a kind of hollow exhaustion already seeping into his bones.  
  
There’s a moment of silence.  
  
Then Jamie says, his voice verging on hysterical, “What the fuck is going on?”  
  
*  
  
Tyler lets Pevs and Ruff explain it all.  
  
Ruff calls in a favor and Jamie gets X-rayed and CAT scanned and MRI’d to within an inch of his life, just to make sure the Surgeon didn’t change anything inside him.  
  
Tyler finds out about this later, because he crashes as soon as they get back to base. He sleeps for almost twelve hours, and he’s still tired when he wakes up. But it’s the kind of tired that feels more like heartsickness.  
  
He closes his eyes and sees the gun in the Surgeon’s hand, sees Jamie’s horrified face, and his stomach turns over.  
  
Ruff finds him in the kitchenette. “Jamie’s asking about you.”  
  
"Oh," Tyler says to his coffee.  
  
"You should go see him," Ruff says gently.  
  
So Tyler does.  
  
Jamie’s still being held for observation. He’s frowning at the tv in the corner of his room when Tyler comes in, trying to get the remote to work. He’s wearing a hospital gown and his hair is soft and ungelled, and it makes Tyler’s chest feel tight.  
  
"Hi," he says.  
  
"Hi," Jamie says back.  
  
There’s an awkward pause.  
  
"Ruff told me— a lot of stuff," Jamie says.  
  
Tyler nods.  
  
Jamie looks down, pleats his blanket with his fingers. “Val and Trevor and Pevs showed me what they can do.”  
  
Tyler nods again.  
  
"What about you?"  
  
"You saw," Tyler says. He takes a deep breath. "I can make people do what I want. I can make them like me."  
  
"Did you ever do it to me?"  
  
"No!" Tyler says. "Fuck, no, I wouldn’t."  
  
"Okay," Jamie says. "Okay, I believe you."  
  
"Why?" Tyler says, before he can stop himself.  
  
"Because it doesn’t seem like something you’d do," Jamie says. "And if you were that kind of person, I wouldn’t even remember enough to ask you, right?"  
  
"Oh," Tyler says.  
  
"So why me?" Jamie asks softly. "Why did he pick me?"  
  
Tyler swallows. “Because he knew how much I, I care about you. He’s been obsessed with me since Boston, and he knew I’d do anything to make sure you were okay.”  
  
"Including handing yourself over to him."  
  
"Yeah," Tyler says.  
  
Jamie studies his face. “I always felt like you were, I dunno, holding something back. I just thought you didn’t like me as much as I liked you and you were trying to let me down easy.”  
  
Tyler’s eyes widen. “No, I. No.”  
  
"I’m kind of getting that." Jamie ducks his head. "So, when they let me out of here, you want to go get coffee or something?"  
  
"Yeah, for sure." Tyler looks at the floor, wishes briefly for telepathy. "You mean like a date, right?"  
  
"Yeah," Jamie says, grinning. "Exactly like a date."


	20. Jamie/Tyler, written on the body soulmate AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An AU where the first words your soulmate says to you are tattooed on your body. Based on [this post.](http://mockingbird-hiddleston.tumblr.com/post/103724525595/parnela-lansbury-kenezbian-soulmate-au-where)

In the movies, it’s always something unique and special, something instantly recognizable.  
  
Jordie’s says, _Your brother is an asshole_ in firm, clear lettering just under his collarbones.  
  
But most people get something vague and politely inane. _Hello, How are you, Nice to meet you_. Jamie gets a name at least, _Hi, I’m Tyler_ wrapped around his wrist like a promise.  
  
*  
  
He meets Bozie in Victoria.  
  
"Hi, I’m Tyler," he says, smiling, and Jamie feels a kick of adrenaline at the words.  
  
"Oh, um, hi, I’m Jamie," he says.  
  
Tyler’s smile doesn’t change, no recognition on his face.  
  
"Um." Jamie doesn’t really know the etiquette on this, but it’s the first time he’s ever heard the exact words. He pushes his sleeve back and shows Tyler his wrist.  
  
"Oh, cool," Tyler says. "But, here—"  
  
He pulls up his shirt. Right above his belly-button is the word, _Hey._ Just that.

It’s a letdown, but Jamie is more distracted by the fact that, “Wow, that is really unhelpful.”  
  
"I know!" Tyler says. He lets his shirt drop. "Look, I’m not your Tyler, just call me Bozie."  
  
"Okay, sure," Jamie says, and that’s that.  
  
(They still hook up a couple of times, anyway. “It’s close enough,” Bozie says, and Jamie’s not going to argue with a blowjob.)  
  
*  
  
Jamie meets Segs at the All-Stars Game.  
  
The guys who came in early are all out at a bar the night before the draft. Jamie trails after Nealer, who’s making his way over to a crowded table in the back. Jamie recognizes Chara, at least.  
  
There’s a young guy kneeling on a chair. He’s laughing, cheeks pink. He looks halfway drunk already.  
  
"Hi, I’m Tyler," he says. He sticks his hand out, leaning over the back of the chair.  
  
Jamie feels a jolt of something, half recognition, half _wow, he’s hot_. “Hi, I’m — oh, shit!”  
  
Tyler’s chair starts to tip and Jamie grabs his shoulders before Tyler goes down completely.  
  
Tyler lets out a startled yelp and clings to Jamie. He starts laughing again. “Fuck, nice to meet you, man!”  
  
Jamie snorts. As first words go, those were pretty unique, but Tyler doesn’t seem to recognize them.  
  
Jamie’s used to it by now. There are a really surprising number of Tylers in the NHL.  
  
The next night, at the draft, when they’ve both been passed over again, Tyler moves to sit next to Jamie on the couch.  
  
"If Chara doesn’t pick me next, I’m gonna short-sheet his bed. You in?"  
  
Jamie politely declines, because he does have a functioning survival instinct, thank you very much.  
  
Tyler blinks, then laughs.  
  
Chara does draft them both eventually. The rest of the weekend is a lot of fun, and he has a good time hanging out with Tyler, and with Nealer, and with the guys from Worlds, and that’s that.  
  
*  
  
At least until two years later, when Tyler gets traded to Dallas.  
  
"Tyler, huh?" Jordie says, with a pointed look at his wrist.  
  
Jamie rolls his eyes. “We’ve met. It’s not him.”  
  
They hit it off right away over the summer, to the point where Tyler is practically their third roommate.  
  
To the point where Jamie finds himself thinking sometimes about how he doesn’t know what Tyler’s words are, not for sure.  
  
Tyler’s seen his wrist. He just gave Jamie a smirk and said, “Tyler? I like him already.”  
  
There’s no reason for Tyler to hide it, if he does have _Hi, I’m oh shit_ on him somewhere. Still, Jamie feels a sharp little twist of disappointment when he sees Tyler in the showers for the first time, the words _No thanks, I’m good_ curving over the jut of his hipbone.  
  
*  
  
When Jamie makes the Olympic roster, the guys take him out for drinks.  
  
Tyler keeps grinning at him. He throws his arm around Jamie’s neck and tugs him in close. “I told you so, I told you,” he says in Jamie’s ear, and Jamie is grinning back, just as wide.  
  
When they get home, Tyler grabs his wrist in the elevator. “Come up for one more beer,” he says.  
  
Jordie catches Jamie’s eye. The corner of Jordie’s mouth twitches, but he represses his grin and gets off on their floor. “See you in the morning,” he says.  
  
Tyler laughs, hiding his face against Jamie’s shoulder until the doors close.  
  
When they get inside Tyler’s apartment, Tyler says, “It’s my patriotic duty to blow you.”  
  
Heat shivers over his skin. “Oh, yeah?”  
  
"I don’t make the rules," Tyler says. "I know I’m not your Tyler, but—"  
  
"Close enough," Jamie says, and pulls him in for a kiss.  
  
*  
  
After that, things are great. Jamie wins an Olympic gold medal, he’s playing great hockey, his team is in the hunt for a playoff spot, and he’s having amazing sex with a guy he really likes.  
  
When they clinch the playoffs, Tyler fucks him. Jamie wraps his arms around Tyler’s shoulders, pulls him down to kiss him, to say, “You were right,” against his mouth.  
  
In the afterglow, Tyler wiggles back against him and tugs Jamie’s arm over his waist, running his fingertips over the name on Jamie’s wrist.  
  
It sends a thread of unease down his spine. Whatever he will have with his soulmate is supposed to be better than this, but Jamie can’t imagine how that’s possible. Can’t imagine anything he’d want more than this. He turns his wrist, slides it out of Tyler’s grasp so he can tangle their fingers together instead.  
  
*  
  
Just getting to the playoffs, taking it to six games, is a huge victory for them.  
  
But losing still feels like a gut punch.  
  
Jamie goes home with Tyler afterwards. They don’t talk, just peel off their game day suits and brush their teeth side by side in the bathroom.  
  
Jamie climbs under the covers and Tyler wraps himself around him like an octopus, and finally, that bitter, crushing disappointment starts to seep out of him.  
  
Jamie’s almost asleep when Tyler says, “Do you ever think the words are wrong?”  
  
"Hmmm?" Jamie mumbles.  
  
"Like… like you’re supposed to say one thing, but something dumb comes out of your mouth instead." Tyler runs his fingers over Jamie’s wrist. His voice gets quieter. "If I’d just said, ‘Hi, I’m Tyler’ the first time we met—"  
  
"What? You did say that."  
  
"No." Tyler props himself up on one elbow. "No, we met at the All Star draft and I asked if you wanted to short-sheet Chara’s bed with me, and you said, ‘No thanks, I’m good.’ "  
  
Jamie is suddenly wide awake. Tyler’s hip is still covered by the sheets, but Jamie doesn’t need to see it to remember what’s written there.  
  
"No," Jamie says. "We met the night before. You said, ‘Hi, I’m Tyler,’ and I said, ‘Hi, I’m oh shit,’ because you nearly fell out of your chair."  
  
"No," Tyler whispers. He looks horrified. "That’s not — I don’t remember. Oh, shit, I was so drunk, how can I not remember?"  
  
Jamie searches Tyler’s face. Something like hope is uncurling in his chest.

“These are the first words you ever said to me,” he says slowly. He reaches out and puts his hand on Tyler’s hip. “And these are the first words you remember me saying to you. So. We match.”  
  
Tyler takes a sharp breath. “Is that even how it works?”  
  
"Close enough," Jamie says, and Tyler’s face breaks into a bright, shaky grin of recognition.

  
____

Follow up snippet about Jordie’s words [here](http://7iris.tumblr.com/post/104801198302/im-curious-about-jordies-words-how-was-jamie-an).


	21. Geno/Ovi, comfort sex at World Juniors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [A visual aid.](http://media.tumblr.com/ae520ae378a988a6bedb7fc34c7f0ed3/tumblr_inline_ngcp8uAiql1rd52c4.jpg) Boys who cry together at World Juniors should have comfort sex at World Juniors.

  
They lose to Canada, 6-1. It’s humiliating and infuriating and crushing. Geno snarls up at the lights when the final buzzer sounds, blinking away the sting of saltwater in his eyes, tears and sweat together.  
  
Alex is crying openly. Geno throws his arm around his neck, tucks him in under his shoulder.  
  
Fuck Canada, fuck Bergeron for that hit on Alex, fuck Crosby, fuck this whole shitty tournament.  
  
The coaches look the other way at the hotel that night. Alcohol mysteriously appears, even though none of them are old enough to drink in this shitty country.  
  
Team Russia drinks morosely in Voloshenko’s room, and tries not to listen to Team Canada partying it up one floor away.  
  
Alex leaves early, blaming his shoulder. Geno frowns and works himself free from the tangle of countrymen on the couch. He makes his way down the hall to the room he’s sharing with Alex.  
  
Alex is sitting on his bed, his head in his hand. He looks up when Geno comes in. His cheeks are wet.  
  
"Sasha," Geno breathes.  
  
He picks his way across the room and sits down next to him, hugs him close to his side.  
  
Alex takes these things so hard. He should get angry, not — not this.  
  
"Sasha, don’t let them make you cry," Geno says. He presses a quick kiss to Alex’s messy hair.  
  
Alex makes a thin noise, somewhere between pain and laughter, his head down.  
  
"Don’t cry." Geno kisses his temple, soft and gentle.  
  
Alex lifts his head and looks at Geno. His eyes are red and wet, and the expression on his face makes Geno’s heart hurt.  
  
"Sasha," he says again, helpless.  
  
Alex leans in and kisses him.  
  
Geno freezes. Alex tastes like tears and cheap American whiskey, and he kisses Geno fiercely, his good hand clutching the front of Geno’s shirt.  
  
"Zhenya," he says against Geno’s mouth, almost pleading.  
  
Geno makes a wordless sound of agreement and opens his mouth.  
  
He’s seen Alex naked before, wrestled him down to the bed or the locker room floor, both of them sweaty and laughing. He’s jerked off with Alex before, in separate beds in the middle of the night, both of them pretending the other isn’t listening.  
  
He’s not prepared for the surge of protectiveness that floods him when he kisses Alex back.  
  
He drags his mouth away, panting. Alex blinks at him, uncertain.  
  
Before he can think about, Geno slides to his knees between Alex’s thighs.  
  
Alex inhales sharply.  
  
"I want to—" Geno says, reaching for Alex’s zipper. "Let me—"  
  
Alex nods dumbly.  
  
Geno eases Alex’s cock out. He’s not hard, but he starts to get there in Geno’s grip. Geno strokes him, smoothing his foreskin back and tugging it up again.  
  
Geno licks his lips, ducks his head. He drags his tongue over the head of Alex’s cock.  
  
Alex lets out a strangled moan and digs his fingers into Geno’s shoulder.  
  
Geno slides just the tip of it into his mouth. The taste of it, the weight of it on his tongue is strange and it makes his stomach tighten, hot and uneasy.  
  
He looks up. Alex is watching him, eyes wide, lips parted, something like shock or awe on his face. Geno closes his eyes. He sucks Alex’s cock with a kind of stubborn determination, like it’s a drill that he’s got to get right. He slides his mouth down further and chokes, has to pull back so he doesn’t gag.  
  
The room is quiet except for the wet, obscene sound of his mouth and Alex’s harsh breathing.  
  
His mouth feels sore and used already. Alex’s thighs are trembling.  
  
"Zhenya," Alex says, breathless.  
  
Geno hums acknowledgement, then Alex’s palm is on his forehead, pushing him back.  
  
Geno pulls all the way off. He opens his mouth to complain, but Alex curls forward and comes all over Geno’s hand.  
  
"Fuck, Zhenya," Alex says, low and rough.  
  
He tugs Geno up to kiss him sloppily. Alex’s is still shivering with the rush of it, and Geno slows the kiss down, both his hands coming up to cup Alex’s jaw.  
  
Finally Alex leans back and says, “Now you.”  
  
Geno hesitates, glances at Alex’s shoulder.  
  
"Like this," Alex says. He inches back to sit against the headboard and beckons Geno up. Geno climbs on to the bed.  
  
"Come on," Alex says.  
  
Geno straddles Alex’s thighs, braces one hand against the wall over his head. Alex tips his head back. He keeps his bad arm tucked against his stomach, and puts his good hand on Geno’s waist, slides his fingers under Geno’s shirt to stroke over his skin.  
  
Geno fumbles with his track pants, shoves them down his thighs. He’s hard, and he doesn’t know when that happened. Alex opens his mouth, but he doesn’t lean forward.  
  
Geno takes a shaky breath and grips his cock, guides it into Alex’s mouth.  
  
Alex rubs his tongue along the underside and sucks slow and deep. He keeps his eyes on Geno’s face.  
  
Geno has to close his eyes, his face heating. Alex tugs on his hip, and Geno pushes in deeper. He fucks Alex’s mouth with careful, shallow strokes.  
  
His thighs and abs hurt with the effort of holding back, but even this has him right on the edge. Alex slides his hand back to palm Geno’s ass. He presses one dry finger against Geno’s asshole, not pushing in, just rubbing, and Geno’s whole body jerks. He barely manages to pull out, coming in heavy spurts across Alex’s mouth and chest.  
  
Alex looks surprised for a moment. Geno groans and flops over sideways, hot with embarrassment and orgasm.  
  
Alex snorts. He wipes the come off his face and then wipes his hand on Geno’s shirt.  
  
Geno makes a face.  
  
Alex leaves his hand there, pressed flat over Geno’s heart.  
  
Geno wants to say something, wants to know the right words to make them both feel better about this, but he’s got nothing. He takes Alex’s hand, kisses his knuckles.  
  
Alex sighs and wriggles down until he’s flat on his back, still holding onto Geno’s hand.  
  
If Geno is very quiet, he thinks he can still hear Team Canada celebrating.


	22. AGally/Prust, cuddling

When Brandon’s shoulder gets fucked up, the wrestling stops.

Brandon being out nags at Alex, and he can’t quite figure out why. They don’t have any long road trips, they still see each other at practice, hang out together afterwards, it’s just — it feels like something’s missing.

Alex feels pissy, unsettled. They lose back-to-back games on the road and it gnaws at him. He’s in a bad mood at morning skate the next day. He’s scowling at the tv, waiting for Gally to be ready to go, when Brandon comes in and sits down next to him.

Alex isn’t mad at him, exactly, he just doesn’t want to be there right then. He gets up, and Brandon grabs his t-shirt, yanks him backwards.

It catches Alex off-guard and he falls half-into Brandon’s lap with a yelp. His whole body tenses up, ready to shove Brandon off, maybe rub his face in the cushions, but then he remembers Brandon’s shoulder.

Brandon’s good arm is wrapped around his chest. Alex is on his side, his shoulders against Brandon’s stomach.

“Dude, let go,” Alex says.

Brandon smirks down at him. “Make me,” he says.

Alex glares back. He tries a tentative wiggle.

“Ow,” Brandon says, deadpan. 

Alex stops moving and glares harder. “Fine,” he says, and turns his attention deliberately to the tv.

After a while, he realizes the tension has gone out of his muscles. Brandon’s arm is loose and gentle across his chest. 

Gally leans over the back of the couch. “Hey, ready for lunch?”

Brandon moves his arm and Alex sits up, yawning. “Yeah, let’s go.”

The last of his bad mood is gone.

*

Alex is sitting at the breakfast bar, eating cereal and watching ESPN with PK. Brandon drapes himself over Alex’s back and reaches around to grab a marshmallow out of Alex’s cereal.

“Hey!” Alex says.

“Hmm?” Brandon says. 

He reaches for another marshmallow. He’s got his good hand braced on Alex’s hip, and Alex is boxed in between PK and Brandon’s bad arm. 

He pokes at Brandon’s hand with his spoon.

“You’re not going to share?” Brandon asks in a fake-hurt voice. “I’m injured, I can’t play, what else do I have to look forward to?”

“Uh, your own bowl?” Alex says.

“Yours are better,” Brandon says.

Alex heaves a huge sigh, but just keeps eating. Brandon stays pressed against him the whole time, his chin hooked over Alex’s shoulder, periodically snagging a marshmallow out of Alex’s bowl.

When the cereal is gone, Brandon wanders off. Alex glances at PK.

PK looks like he’s trying not to smile.

“What?” Alex says.

PK loses the battle and a grin spreads across his face. “Nothing, man. Nothing at all.”

*

Alex doesn’t figure it out until Brandon drops down next to him on the couch and gets him in a headlock.

Alex barely stops himself from fighting back. He lets himself go limp against Brandon. Brandon makes a pleased sound and loosens his grip, shifts his arm so it’s around Alex’s shoulders instead of his neck.

This is what he’s been missing, Alex realizes. The feeling of Brandon’s body pressed warm and solid against his.

He tenses, almost pulls away, but Brandon squeezes his shoulders and says, “Just relax, Chucky.”

Alex does, slowly. It’s only a big deal if he makes it one, and he just — won’t.

*

Brandon finally gets the red practice jersey again. Alex is happy to see Brandon healthy enough to do full-contact drills with them again, and he doesn’t know why he would feel even this tiny thread of disappointment.

He skates up to Brandon, gets in his personal space, angling for a play-fight. Brandon lets him get close, but he doesn’t drop the gloves. He’s grinning at Alex, and Alex is grinning back. 

Finally, Therrien blows the whistle, and Brandon skates towards the other end of the ice. 

“Should I be watching my back out there?” Alex calls after him.

“Hell no,” Brandon says. “I’m doing my checking drills with Danny!”

*

Brandon goes with them to Columbus. 

When Gally calls his parents, Alex goes to hang out with Brandon.

Brandon’s left his door propped open. Alex flips the latch back and closes the door behind him. 

Brandon’s in sweats and a t-shirt, stretched out on the bed watching tv. Alex flops down next to him.

“What are we watching?” he asks.

“Project Runway,” Brandon says.

“Oh, hell no,” Alex says. He grabs the remote out of Brandon’s hand.

“Hell, yes,” Brandon says and lunges to grab it back.

Alex rolls onto his side, laughing, curled around his prize. Brandon hooks his leg over Alex’s and reaches across him to grab at the remote, pressed up against Alex’s back.

All the fight goes out of Alex. It’s instinct by now, or habit, not to struggle when Brandon grabs him.

“Hey,” Brandon says. “I’m playing tomorrow. You don’t have to go easy on me anymore.”

Alex hesitates. The thing is, he’s not sure he wants to go back to just wrestling.

Brandon relaxes against him then. He lets go of the remote and presses his palm flat against Alex’s stomach.

“But this is good, too,” Brandon says.

Alex clears his throat. “Better,” he says, and there’s a little bit of a question in it.

Brandon presses a kiss to Alex’s neck, right where it meets his shoulder, where the collar of his t-shirt’s been pulled down. “Yeah,” he says. “Better.”


	23. Sid/Geno, Geno/OFC, one of them is a vampire

Sid frowns when he sees [Geno’s costume](http://lazyandg.tumblr.com/post/100454217080/penguins-halloween-party-10-19-14-top-photo-left). “Isn’t that a little — obvious?” he says.

Geno rolls his eyes. “People not point, say I a vampire because of costume. You think they say you real—” He squints dubiously at Sid’s costume, takes a wild guess. “—Sinatra?”

Sid huffs. “Rocky. And maybe I just meant it was uncreative.”

“Hurt, Sid,” Geno says, putting his hand over his heart.

“Just get in the car,” Sid says. “We’re going to be late.”

Geno thinks sometimes it wasn’t the greatest idea to have told Sid what he is. Last year had been hard, with the Olympics, and the playoffs, and Sid had been so honest with him about his own anxieties, his own sense of failure. That had been their eighth season together, and Geno had been thinking about how little time he really has left with Sid, with the team, before it starts to become obvious that he’s not aging like they are. Before he has to disappear. 

So he told Sid. He doesn’t regret it, but now he has to deal with Sid worrying about him. Sid worries about whether Geno is okay when the team goes out to lunch, like Geno is anywhere near old enough to spontaneously combust in sunlight. He worries about whether Duper’s crucifix is bothering Geno (it isn’t, not anymore than Sid’s necklace does). He worries about whether Geno is eating enough, or if he’s feeding off the right people. 

It’s sweet, but really, completely unnecessary. 

Geno drives. Sid’s scent fills up the car, lingering on the back of Geno’s tongue, and reminds Geno that he needs to feed tonight. 

Paulie and Beau are the first people they see when they get to the party.

“Look, Sid!” Geno says in a loud whisper. “KISS!”

Sid rolls his eyes, shoves Geno’s shoulder.  

The party is fun. Geno checks out everyone’s costumes and takes a bunch of selfies. 

He’s planning to go out afterwards, find a stranger in a club. But he meets a woman, a friend of a friend of someone in the Pens organization, with a predatory glint in her own eyes. It’s a normal, human hunger, but they can help each other out.

“I’m Melissa,” she says. She’s dressed like a flapper, with dark, smooth chin-length hair and deep red lipstick.

“Geno,” he says, and she smiles like she knows who he is and thinks it’s cute he’s acting like she might not.

“Dance?” he asks.

She puts down her drink and lets him lead her out into the crowd. He puts his hands on her hips and pulls her a little closer than is completely appropriate for what is really an office party. She smirks up at him through her lashes, leaning into him, her arms coming up to rest loosely around his neck.

The music is loud, some American pop song with a fast beat. She smells good, human, like perfume and warm skin. Hunger ripples through him and he ducks his head, lets his lips just graze her throat. She sighs and rolls her hips against him.

“I want to suck your blood,” he says in her ear, and lifts his head to give her his cheesiest grin.

She laughs, gives him a long considering look. “Yeah, all right,” she says. 

She takes his hand and he follows her off the dance floor, past the bathrooms and the kitchens. The hallway is dark and empty. Even Geno can barely hear the music from the party here.

She turns around and tugs him closer. He presses her up against the wall, leans in to kiss her mouth, slow and thorough. Her heartbeat speeds up as they kiss. He shifts his weight, slots his thigh between her legs. 

She makes a soft, breathy sound and grinds against him. He can smell her arousal, can smell the blood rising under her skin as she flushes. He slides his hand down her side. Her dress has ridden up and he strokes his palm over her outer thigh. He breaks the kiss, ducking his head to press his lips against her throat. He can feel the rapid flutter of her pulse. His teeth ache with the urge to bite down.

Melissa spreads her legs wider, rolling her hips against him. He lets his hand slip under the hem of her dress. 

“Mmm, yeah,” she sighs. 

He sucks a bruise into the skin of her throat as he slides his hand up her leg. His fingers brush the lace of her panties, already damp. He nudges the fabric aside and rubs the pads of his fingers against her hot, slick folds.

Her breath catches. He teases her a little, soft, delicate touches, until she grabs his wrist and grinds against his hand.

He laughs in the back of his throat. He slides two fingers inside her and she moans, biting it off quickly. He rubs his thumb over her clit. She’s close, he can hear it in her heartbeat and her breath, feel it in the shake of her thighs.

He lets his fangs drop and bites her throat. Her blood fills his mouth and his knees go weak at the taste of it. He swallows in greedy gulps, warmth and life flooding through him.

She comes, clenching down around his fingers, and the rush of her orgasms echoes in his veins. He strokes her through it, the feedback loop between them dragging it out. 

He doesn’t know if he hears Sid first, or if he smells him, but he knows suddenly that he’s there. Geno drags his eyes open, lifts his head. Sid is standing frozen at the end of the hallway. His eyes are huge, his mouth open. Geno can hear the quick stutter of his heart. 

“Sorry,” Sid breathes, barely audible. 

Geno blinks, licks his lips, and Sid shakes his head like he’s waking up. He turns on his heel and leaves. 

Melissa shifts and his attention snaps back to her. Her head is thrown back, eyes closed. Geno brushes his thumb over her clit and her whole body jerks. His palm is soaked and his fingers move easily inside her, long, smooth strokes. He teases another orgasm out of her, licks the last traces of blood off her throat.

She’ll have a bruise there tomorrow, a faint bitemark, like any other mark left by a lover.

She sighs, long and pleased.

Geno makes a noise of agreement, his whole body suffused with the warm, golden hum of satisfaction.

“Wow,” Melissa says. “And I heard hockey players are a shitty lay.”

Geno grins, just a little smug. “I hear, too. Try harder.”

She laughs. She adjusts her underwear and her dress with a quick shimmy, smooths a hand over her hair. Her lipstick is still intact. “Give me a five minute head start, okay?”

Geno nods.

“Thanks,” she says. “This was fun.” 

She presses a quick, easy kiss to the corner of his mouth. She doesn’t offer him her number, and he doesn’t ask. He watches her walk away. He checks his phone for the time, flicks through some texts.

He stops at the bathroom on the way back to wash his hands and make sure there’s no blood on his mouth.

When he comes out, he runs into Sid.

“Oh, um,” Sid says. “Sorry about that, I was, I thought I heard…”

He trails off. 

Geno takes pity on him. “Long night, I think go home now. You need ride, or call cab?”

Sid barely hesitates before he says, “I’ll go with you.”

The party is too loud for him now, too full of humanity. He doesn’t make the rounds to say goodbye, just goes straight to the valet.

Sid takes a deep breath of the cold night air while they wait. He keeps sending Geno quick little sidelong glances. 

When they get in the car, Sid fiddles with the heat for a minute.

“Were you — were you biting her?” he asks, not looking at Geno.

“Yes,” Geno says.

“Huh,” Sid says. “It looked…I dunno, I guess it wasn’t what I was expecting.”

“What, you think it all—” Geno makes an exaggerated snarly face. “—Rawr!”

Sid laughs, finally relaxes a little in his seat. “No! Well, maybe.”

Geno snorts.

“Did she know you were a vampire?”

“No,” Geno says. “She think, just hook-up. Just—” He taps at his throat, forgetting the English word.

Sid frowns. “A hickey?” he offers.

“Yes, that.” Geno glances over at Sid. “You only human in Pittsburgh who know.”

“Oh,” Sid says, and he ducks his head, biting his lip on a shy, pleased smile.

The rest of the drive is silent.

Geno turns down Sid’s driveway and stops in front of his house.

Sid unbuckles his seatbelt, then hesitates with his hand on the door. “What’s it like, biting someone?”

Geno puts the car in park and looks at Sid. “Feel good,” he says. “Like chocolate cake and wine and…”

“Sex?” Sid asks. His face is bright red and he’s not not quite looking at Geno.

“Yes, like that, too.”

Sid finally meets his eyes. “What’s it like being bitten?”

Some strange emotion twists in Geno’s gut, something like anticipation, like possessiveness. Sid’s heart is beating faster and his eyes are very dark, but his gaze is steady.

“Feel good. Hard to say.” Geno knows it’s a terrible idea, but he can’t quite help himself. “I could show.”

Sid inhales sharply. “Really?”

“Yes. Just a little. If you want.”

Sid shivers and finally looks away. He licks his lips. “Yeah,” he says in a rush. “I want.”

Geno nods and turns off the car with a carefully steady hand. “Okay,” he says.

Sid gets out of the car then. Geno follows him. He waits a few steps back while Sid unlocks the door and turns off the alarm.

When Sid closes the door behind them, Geno steps in close. He ducks his head and breathes in the scent of Sid’s skin.

Sid’s heartbeat jumps, but he doesn’t try to move away. He smells like nerves and excitement and a little thread of arousal, but not like fear or panic.

Geno exhales, relieved, and rubs the tip of his nose over Sid’s pulse, quick and affectionate.

Sid watching him with wide eyes when he steps back. “Where, um—?”

Geno almost says the bedroom. He nods towards Sid’s living room instead. “Sofa?”

“Sure, okay,” Sid says. He takes his shoes off and Geno obediently follows his lead.

Sid pads barefoot into the living room and sits down gingerly on the end of the sofa. Geno sinks to his knees in front of him.

“Are you going to—?” Sid waves vaguely at his throat.

“You want hickey for practice tomorrow?” Geno teases.

Sid makes a face.

Geno picks up Sid’s hand, turns it over. He touches the delicate skin of Sid’s inner wrist. “Here, okay?”

Sid nods.

Geno presses his lips to Sid’s pulse, almost a kiss, and feels his fangs come down.

He looks up at Sid’s face, wide-eyed and trusting, and bites him.

Sid gasps, and it turns into a long, shuddery sigh. His lips part, his eyes slip shut, pink washing across his cheeks. 

Geno almost moans when Sid’s blood spills across his tongue. He is so used to taking only enough to survive, carefully rationing every feeding. This sip of Sid’s blood feels almost decadent, done only for pleasure.

Sid’s scent has changed, arousal hot and thick pouring off of him. He’s hard in his jeans. 

Geno presses his tongue flat against the bite to slow the flow of blood. He puts Sid’s hand, palm up, on the arm of the sofa. 

“Sid,” he says. He reaches out, runs his knuckles down the thickness of Sid’s cock. “Sid, you want?”

“Yeah,” Sid says. He sounds drugged, dazed, and Geno feels a deep, fierce pulse of satisfaction. “God, Geno, I need...”

“I know,” Geno says. He unzips Sid’s jeans, eases his cock out. 

He looks up, meeting Sid’s eyes. He licks his lips absently, chasing that last trace of blood from the corner of his mouth, and Sid comes all over Geno’s hand.

“Fuck,” Sid pants. He slumps back against the couch cushions.

“Okay?” Geno asks.

Sid lets out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. I think you broke my brain, but…yeah.”

Post-orgasm is a good look on Sid, all loose and flushed and heavy-eyed. Geno realizes he’s hard. It doesn’t always hit him like this, but the rush of feeding has turned to insistent heat in his veins.

“C’mere,” Sid says.

Geno kneels up, and Sid catches the edge of his ridiculous puffy shirt and tugs him closer, so Geno is leaning over him.

Sid leans up the last inch to kiss him. He pulls back and blinks at Geno.

“Oh, that’s—” he says and licks his lips.

“What?”

Sid leans up again. “I can taste my blood in your mouth,” he says against Geno’s lips.

Geno groans and kisses him.

Sid reaches out and palms Geno’s cock. Geno rocks forward against the pressure of his hand, kissing Sid desperately.

The tension snaps abruptly, orgasm flashing through him like lightning, all dazzling heat and spark. 

He presses his head against Sid’s shoulder and lets it wash over him. Sid gently, almost tentatively strokes his hand down Geno’s back.

Geno inhales deeply. Sid smells like come and blood and sweat, and under it all, next to Sid’s skin, is Geno’s scent.

Geno tips his head, kisses the side of Sid’s throat. 

“Do you want to stay?” Sid asks. “I mean, I don’t have a coffin, but—”

Geno jerks his head up. Sid looks back, too wide-eyed and innocent to be believed.

Geno snorts. “Your bed good enough. Uh, if—”

“Yeah,” Sid says. “That’s what I meant.”


	24. Sid/Geno/Ovi, accidental voyeurism

Sid is sprawled out on the couch after dinner when his phone rings.

He frowns at the screen. It’s Geno, which is weird, because Geno never calls him over the summer, he usually just texts.

“Hello?” Sid says.

There’s a rustling sound on the other end, and the muffled sound of people speaking Russian. He can recognize Geno’s voice and some other guy. Sid snorts. Geno didn’t call him, he butt-dialed him.

Sid takes the phone away from his ear. He’s about to hang up when he hears the moan.

It’s deep and rough and clearly sexual.

Sid jumps and his thumb hits the speaker phone button. The murmur of voices spills out. There’s a rustle and a thud, and the sound is suddenly clearer, like the phone has slipped out of Geno’s pocket.

Sid can hear them breathing, can hear the drag of fabric and a quick gasp. Geno laughs in the back of his throat, low and dirty.

_Hang up_ , Sid’s brain screams. But he’s frozen, listening to the sounds of Geno hooking up with a _guy_ , holy _shit_.

There’s another bitten-off moan on the other end, and then Geno starts talking. Sid has no idea what Geno is saying, but just the tone of it sounds filthy. Sid feels a curl of shameful heat in the pit of his stomach.

” _Pozhaluysta_ —” the other guy says, and Sid knows just enough Russian to understand _please_. His voice nags at Sid, vaguely familiar.  

Geno says something back, almost gentle. Sid can hear the slide of skin on skin, and something slicker — kissing?

“Shit,” he says, and closes his eyes hard for a second. 

He’s reaching for the end call button again when the other guy says, “Sidney?”

Sid’s pulse jumps and he suddenly recognizes the voice. “ _Ovechkin_?”

Ovechkin laughs breathlessly. “You want speak to Zhenya?”

“No, I, he called me!”

“Hmmm,” Ovechkin says. Geno says something in the background, a little sharp. “He ask, who I talk to while we fuck. You want I tell him?”

Ovechkin’s voice is lazy, with that smug edge he gets when he’s chirping Sid on the ice. Like he’s expecting Sid to freak out and hang up.

Fuck that. Sid sits up straight. “Sure,” he says.

“I—” Ovi’s voice cuts off on a sharp inhale. 

Sid bites his lip on the urge to ask what’s happening.

“Fuck, his mouth,” Ovi says.

Sid holds his breath. Ovi groans something in Russian, maybe Geno’s name, maybe just a string of curses.

Then he exhales like he’s been punched in the gut, and Sid knows he just came. There’s a scuffling noise, Geno pulling the phone out of Ovi’s hand.

“Sid?” Geno says.

“Yeah,” Sid says, and it comes out rough around the edges. “I’m sorry, you called on accident and I answered.”

“You listen,” Geno says.

“Yeah.” Sid’s halfway afraid Geno’s going to ask why, because he even he doesn’t know the answer to that.

Geno’s breathing hitches, speeds up.

“Is Ovechkin taking care of you?” Sid asks. He doesn’t know where it comes from, doesn’t recognize his own voice, low and smooth.

“Yeah,” Geno says, a shaky exhale.

“You should come on his face,” Sid says. “He’d look good like that.”

“Fuck, Sid—” Geno gasps out, and comes with a soft, raw noise. 

Heat washes over Sid’s face. He presses the heel of his hand against his own aching dick. The only thing he hears for a long minute is Geno’s panting breath. 

“Sidney—” Ovi says, and it’s not snide or taunting.

“Have a good rest of the summer,” Sid says, and does what he should have done at the very beginning. He hangs up.

He takes a slow, careful breath, then shoves his sweatpants down and wraps his hand around his cock. He jerks himself off fast and rough, and all he thinks about is Geno’s breath in his ear, Ovi’s teasing voice.

After he comes, he stares up at his ceiling and just floats. His phone buzzes. He wipes his hand off on his t-shirt and picks it up.

_We okay yes?_ Geno says.

Sid’s thumb hovers over the keyboard as he tries to find the right words. He settles on, _At least he’s not Giroux._ He adds a smiley face on at the end, just in case.

_))))))))_ , Geno says.

*

For the rest of the summer, Sid keeps telling himself, _don't make this weird._

He purposefully arranges it so he doesn't see Geno until the first day of training camp, when everyone else will be there. Geno grins huge and wide when he sees Sid, and Sid finds himself grinning back, just as hard. Geno sweeps him up into a bear hug.

He has one moment to think this is going to be fine, just like old times, and then Geno says, "Sid," low and pleased in his ear, and Sid is remembering with vivid clarity what Geno sounds like when he comes.

Fuck. It's gonna be weird.

*

Ovechkin apparently did not get the _don't make this weird_ memo.

Sid can't decide if Geno is touching him more lately, or if it's just wishful thinking, but Ovi is straight up flirting with him the first time they play each other.

It's not really subtle. Ovi gives him over-the-top compliments and cheerfully dirty smiles during warm-ups and some stoppages in play in the first period, skating up close to whisper in his ear.

Sid's used to chirping on the ice, so it's easy to brush it off.

Ovi isn't teasing anymore by the third period. He slams Sid into the boards and they battle for the puck. Sid kicks it free and it bounces to Hornqvist's stick, gets chipped up into the Pens bench.

Sid snarls in frustration as the whistle blows, and Ovi bares his teeth, a fierce, nasty grin. They're both breathing hard. Sid feels a hot tug of _something_ in the pit of his stomach as they stare at each other, then Ovi pushes away and they head for the faceoff dot.

Afterwards, Sid can't help the quick glances he sneaks at Geno, at the hickeys on his chest and hip that definitely weren't there at practice yesterday, before the Caps got to town.

*

When they go to Washington, Sid and most of the blueline go out to dinner with Brooks and Nisky. Geno skips out on the reunion dinner to hang out with the Russians.

Back in his hotel room, Sid brushes his teeth and changes into a t-shirt and boxers. He turns on the Food Network and very carefully does not think about what else Geno might be doing with the Russians. A Russian.

Just as he's going to turn off the tv and go to bed, his phone rings.

It's Geno.

"Hello?" Sid says.

All he hears is heavy breathing and the slide of skin on skin. He feels a flash of heat that's only partly anger. He opens his mouth to tell Geno to learn to put his goddamn phone away before he starts hooking up, but then Geno says, low and gravelly, "Sid."

Sid's breath stutters. His dick twitches against his thigh. "I-- what?" he says.

"Sidney," Ovi says. "We are talking about you."

They have him on speaker phone. "Oh," he says, blankly.

"Last time, so hot, yes?" Ovi says.

Sid forces a noncommittal sound. He can hear rustling, and soft, slick noises. Geno -- he thinks it's Geno -- lets out a harsh gasp.

Sid presses his palm over his crotch. He's getting hard, from the sounds on the other end, from the memory of last time. "So, what, you want an audience?" Sid asks, sharper than he means.

"Door is open, Sidney," Ovi says. "If you want."

Sid's eyes snap to the connecting door between his and Geno's room. He assumed they'd gone to Ovechkin's place for the privacy, but...

He gets out of bed slowly, phone still pressed to his ear. His heart is beating a little too fast in his chest. It's not like he thinks they're deliberately yanking his chain, but he has a hard time believing this is real.

He opens his side of the door. Geno's door is closed. He puts his hand on the door knob, turns, and pushes, and the door swings open.

From the threshold, he can see them. Geno is sprawled out on his back, legs spread wide, and Ovi is between them, bent over Geno's groin. Only the bedside light is on, a warm glow on their skin, the rest of the room in shadow.

"Fuck," Sid breathes. His hand falls away from his ear, his phone forgotten.

Ovi lifts his head, pulling off of Geno's cock with a wet pop. It takes him a minute to drag his eyes away from Geno, but when he does he gives Sid a wide grin, filthy and delighted.

"Sidney," he says.

Sid hesitates by the door, unsure if he's invited to touch, or just to watch.

Geno turns his head on the pillow and holds one hand out. "Sid."

Sid swallows hard and crosses the room like Geno's hand is magnetized. He sits on the edge of the bed. They've left Geno's phone on the mattress by his hip, and Sid's movement jostles it. He scoops it up and drops both phones on the nightstand.

Geno puts his hand on Sid's thigh, big and rough and warm.

Geno's heavy-eyed and flushed, red spilling down over his collarbones. His cock is still wet with precome and Ovi's spit, so hard it brushes his belly.

Ovi still has his hand between Geno's legs, and he does something that makes Geno moan, makes his dick jerk.

Ovi has his fingers in Geno's ass, Sid realizes.

He looks at Ovi, who glances back with an expression that's both smug and oddly sweet, affectionate.

"He love this," Ovi says, and from the noises Geno is making, the restless flex of his hips, Sid has no doubt. "Kiss him."

Sid shivers all over and Geno's grip on his thigh tightens. He leans in, one hand braced next to Geno's head. He hesitates, and Geno makes an impatient noise, lifts his chin that last fraction of an inch to press their mouths together.

Sid's hand clenches in the sheets and he licks into Geno's mouth, so wet and hot under his. He kisses him until they're both panting into it, until Geno has to turn his head away and drag in a deep, ragged breath.

Sid's dick aches just looking at him. Ovi turns his hand and Geno groans something in Russian, then, " _Sasha_ ," low and pleading.

"Shh, Sid take care of you," Ovi says. He looks at Sid. "You want? Hand?"

Sid nods jerkily. He wraps his hand around Geno cock, and Geno gasps. He's hot and slick in Sid's grip, and it only takes a few strokes before he's coming, heavy spurts all over his stomach and chest.

He looks wrecked, his eyes shut, mouth open and panting. Sid can't look away.

"Sid," Ovi says. He tugs on Sid's t-shirt, pulling him closer, and Sid lets himself be tugged into the wide vee of Geno's thighs, almost in Ovi's lap.

Ovi slides his hands under Sid's t-shirt. Sid pulls it off. Ovi hooks his chin over Sid's shoulder, his hands still spread over Sid's waist, and they look at Geno, spread out in front of them.

"You want mess him up some more?" Ovi asks.

Sid takes a quick, sharp breath. "Yeah," he says.

Geno smiles lazily up at him.

Ovi slides one hand into the slit in Sid's boxers and pulls his cock out. He gives Sid a few slow strokes. His grip is just right, the perfect edge of rough and tight to his smooth strokes. He rubs his thumb over the head of Sid's cock, light and teasing. A tiny, breathy noise slips out of Sid's mouth before he can bite it back. Ovi ducks his head and presses his mouth against Sid's shoulder, and Sid can feel his smile.

He can feel his hard-on, too, pressed against his ass. Sid rocks back against him, and Ovi's hand stutters on his dick.

Sid wiggles his ass against Ovi's cock, and Ovi hisses something under his breath in Russian. Then he says, "Zhenya."

Which is clearly cheating, because Geno's smile gets wider, dirtier, and he reaches out to run his fingertips through the precome welling up at the tip of Sid's cock. He wraps his hand around Sid's dick, overlapping with Ovi's.

Sid's hips jerk forward, thrusting into both their hands. "Oh, fuck--"

Geno's watching his face intently. Ovi kisses his shoulder. "Come on, Sid," he says, low and coaxing.

Sid grabs Geno's thigh and the tension inside him snaps. He comes in long pulses all over Geno's chest. Geno's eyes dip shut, and he can feel Geno shiver.

His whole body hums, golden warmth spilling through his veins. Ovi shifts his hand, presses his palm flat against Sid's stomach. He's grinding his dick against Sid's ass.

Sid lets his head tip back. "Can you come like this?" he asks.

Ovi huffs out a breath. "Ah, Sid, your ass," he says, in a deeply appreciative tone of voice, and Sid feels his cheeks go pink despite himself.

"Here, wait," he says. He pushes his boxers down around his thighs, so Ovi can rub against his bare skin.

Ovi groans. He rocks forward and his dick slips between Sid's thighs, nudges up against his balls.

Which is, huh. Sid squeezes his thighs together, and Ovi pushes in again. It's dry at first, but he can feel Ovi leaking against his skin as he thrusts, short, tight strokes.

Ovi's breathing thin and fast, his hand tight on Sid's hip.

Geno sits up and wraps his hand around the back of Ovi's neck, pulls him in over Sid's shoulder for a kiss. Sid is pressed between them, surrounded by smooth skin and heavy muscle, and he doesn't know if he wants to cuddle or get hard again.

Ovi moans against Geno's mouth and comes, warm and slick against Sid's thighs. He slumps over, rests his forehead on Sid's shoulder, his panting breath hot on Sid's back.

Geno turns his head and kisses Sid, like it's natural, obvious, his mouth slow and sweet.

Ovi flops over onto his side. Sid pulls back from Geno and looks over at him. Sid is slowly becoming conscious of the fact that he's covered in come and sweat, that he's incredibly sleepy, that he doesn't know what happens next.

Sid takes a deep breath, and Ovi grabs his wrist and tugs. Sid's not expecting it, and he tips sideways. Geno nudges him the rest of the way, until Sid's settled between the two of them again, Ovi pressed against his back, Geno nuzzling in to kiss his throat.

"Um," Sid says.

"Shhh," Ovi says.

"Nap time," Geno says.

"Ummm," Sid says again, but it's more of a sleepy sigh, and this all seems totally reasonable.

He'll worry about it being weird in the morning.


	25. Beau Bennet/Brandon Sutter, suttsy's dick was on national tv!!!

Beau’s already turned off the game and is about to go to bed when Bortz texts him. _suttys dick was on national tv!!!_

 _wat?_ Beau says.

_tanger opened the door when they were interviewing tanner_

_wow that sucks,_ Beau says, overcome with sympathetic embarrassment.

 _lololol_ , Bortz says. He is apparently not as sympathetic.

*

When he gets to the rink to see the trainers the next morning, a bunch of the guys are gathered around Tanger’s phone. Beau looks out of morbid curiosity.

The actual video is pretty quick, but there are already slowed down and zoomed in versions.

“Flat Stanley’s not so flat after all,” Nealer says.

Bortz sends him the link, because he is a terrible friend. Beau can’t stop watching it. Which is weird because he sees Brandon’s dick literally all the time. Like, he could probably go see Brandon’s dick right now if he wanted to. If he’s not on the ice.

But maybe that’s the thing — everyone looks in the dressing room, but no one _stares_. And Beau kind of wants to stare. He watches the video until it starts to bother him that it’s without Brandon’s permission, that Brandon can’t throw a wad of tape at his head and tell him to fuck off.

He deletes the link and clears his browser history, but he has a sneaking suspicion that he’s going to have to rely on willpower not to google “Brandon Sutter penis.”

Beau sees the medical staff and does his physical therapy and his time on the stationary bike. When he gets out of the showers, Brandon is the only one still in the dressing room. He’s stripped out of his equipment, just sitting there with his head down.

“Hey,” Beau says.

Brandon looks up.

Beau hovers. “Are you okay?”

Brandon tries to smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. “Yeah, I’m fine. I wish the whole world and their mother hadn’t seen my dick, but what are you going to do?”

“At least it’s a nice looking dick?” Beau offers.

Brandon blinks. “What?”

“I’m just saying, I’ve seen uglier dicks,” Beau says. “Heck, there’s uglier dicks on this team. No one’s gonna say, that Brandon Sutter, he has a tiny, ugly dick.”

“Ugh, shut up, you’re not helping,” Brandon says, and throws a towel at him. But he’s laughing now, his cheeks turning pink.

*

The problem is that Beau still wants to stare.

He’s hanging out in the locker room, talking to Bortz and waiting to skate with the rest of the IR guys, when Brandon comes out of the shower with just a towel slung low around his hips.

Beau trips over what he was saying and drags his eyes away. He can feel his face slowly turning red. A couple stalls over, Brandon drops his towel, reaches for his boxers. If Beau looked over now, he could see — whatever he wanted.

Bortz reaches out and flicks him in the forehead.

“Ow!” Beau says, jerking back.

“Dude, are you okay?” Bortz asks. “You just agreed to buy me Chipotle for a month.”

“I’m fine,” Beau says.

Brandon is funny and laid back, and they play amazing hockey together, and Beau really wants to see his dick.

Beau is not fine.

*

In February, Beau slips getting out of the shower and fucks up his wrist again.

After his x-rays and his talks with the trainers, he’s waiting for Bortz on the sofa in the lounge. The consensus is it’s going to be another three or four weeks before he can play. They gave him something a little stronger for the pain, and it’s making him tired and fuzzy and kind of sad. (Maybe that last part isn’t the pills, but he’s going to blame them for the tight, ache-y feeling behind his eyes.)

Brandon wanders in and sits down next to him. “Hey,” he says casually. Then he takes another look at Beau’s face, and says more gently, “Hey, are you okay?”

Beau nods.

Brandon studies his face. “Are you sure? It’s just — you seem a little weird, or off, or something lately.”

Beau shrugs, running his fingers over his new wrist brace. “I missing playing,” he says.

“Oh, yeah, I get that,” Brandon says. He slings his arm around Beau’s shoulders and Beau lets himself lean over into Brandon’s warmth.

“Also, I really want to see your dick. Not like in a hey, we’re all taking a shower together way, but in a—” Beau snaps his mouth shut, his face going beet red. He is one hundred percent going to blame that on the pills.

He sneaks a cautious glance at Brandon’s face. Brandon looks surprised and curious, but not grossed out. So there’s that.

“What kind of way, then?” Brandon asks.

Beau licks his lips. “Um. In a romantic, get to know you kind of way?”

“Yeah?” Brandon says. There’s a soft little smile starting to spread across his face, and it makes something warm and hopeful uncurl in Beau’s chest.

Beau nods.

“Cool,” Brandon says. “I think I can arrange that.”


	26. Foligno/Bobrovsky, cop AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bob goes undercover to investigate a human trafficking ring that’s linked to the Russian mob, and Nick is his handler.

They set Nick up with an apartment in Bob’s building. Nick can come down the fire escape and let himself in through Bob’s bedroom window, so they can meet once or twice a month without being seen together.

Nick is Bob’s one link back to his old life, and his reminder that he’s doing this for a reason, that something good will come from it. Nick has to watch Bob go from someone who is cheerful and always smiling, to someone who looks tired, worn-down, heartsick. Nick has to be the one to slap him on the back and send him back in again.

At first it’s just establishing his cover, building trust, trying to work his way up the food chain until he can make contact with the people who give the orders, who actually know shit. It means ignoring or actively colluding in drug dealing, extortion, and assault.

Then they kill someone in front of Bob.

It’s one of their own, a foot soldier who’s gotten too friendly with a rival gang. It’s meant to be a warning to everyone in the room.

Bob watches, and then he helps them move the body.

When he gets back to his place, a few hours before dawn, he texts Nick. _meet up?_

It’s before their next scheduled check in, so Nick is pretty sure something is wrong. He scrambles down the fire escape and lets himself in.

Bob is sitting at the kitchen table with about an inch of vodka in a juice glass. Nick frowns at the alcohol, but doesn’t say anything. Honestly, Bob looks like he needs it.

Bob tells him what happened, and Nick feels like he needs a drink, too, by the end. He takes down all the details, makes a mental note to try to figure out a way to recover the body without blowing Bob’s cover.

Bob tosses back the last swallow in his glass. “I know he is bad man,” he says. “But not deserve…”

Nick looks up sharply. “There wasn’t anything you could do,” he says. He tries to put all of his conviction into his voice. “You’re going to save more people by maintaining your cover. People who deserve what’s happening to them even less than he did.”

Bob nods, but he doesn’t look like he believes him. Nick doesn’t blame him.

After that, Nick lets his routine overlap with Bob’s more often. He goes to the laundromat when Bob does sometimes, eats breakfast at the same diner.

They don’t talk, or even sit next to each other, but Nick hopes it makes Bob feel a little less alone in this life.

*

Things start moving faster after that.

A few weeks later, Bob texts him, _need to see u._

Nick comes down. Bob is at the kitchen table again. This time he’s got the whole bottle of vodka out.

“They have girls at warehouse,” Bob says.

Nick feels a grim jolt of excitement. This is the first evidence they have of human trafficking.

“They lock in back room, say Vasily take them to jobs tomorrow.”

Nick frowns as he takes notes. It’s not enough to prove anything, not without the women’s testimony, and he’s pretty sure they would all rather be deported than testify against the Andreovs.

From Bob’s expression, he knows that, too.

“I ask what jobs, where, but they laugh, say, ‘housekeeping’ like joke.” Bob knocks back the last of the vodka in his glass, put pours himself another. He’s looking a little glassy-eyed, and Nick wonders how long he’s been drinking. “I leave them there.”

And—oh, Nick understands. “We’ll find them again, once we have enough evidence to bring down the whole operation.”

Bob’s mouth twists, and he doesn’t say there will be someone else to take Andreov’s place, another operation to satisfy demand. Which is good, because Nick doesn’t have an answer for that.

Bob reaches out, hand hovering over the recorder. “I can?”

“Yeah,” Nick says, and puts down his pen.

Bob turns off the recorder. “They say I can fuck one.”

“Jesus,” Nick says.

“I say no, and they say, why? Girls are new and pretty and clean. So I say, I am gay. I not know what to say.”

Nick blinks. “Okay, wow. Is that going to be a problem for your cover? Are they going to, um—”

Bob is shaking his head. “No. They call me—” he says something in Russian that Nick doesn’t understand. “But not nasty, just joke. They still trust.”

“Okay,” Nick says, dubious. “But if it puts you in danger, let me know right away.”

“Okay,” Bob says, but not like he’s really agreeing.

“Get some sleep,” Nick says.

Bob nods. He goes to stand up and wobbles.

Nick lurches up and catches his elbow. “Easy,” he says, and wraps his arm around Bob’s waist, steers him towards his bedroom.

He deposits Bob, fully dressed, into his bed. Bob flops onto his back and throws an arm over his face.

“Is first time I tell anyone,” Bob mumbles. “And I tell _vor v zakone_ trash.”

"Oh,” Nick says. He feels that sharp twinge of protectiveness that does neither of them any good. “It’s okay, you told me now, too.”

He doesn’t know if Bob hears him, or if he’s already asleep.

*

At their next scheduled check-in, Bob says, “I think I need wire. For Tuesday.”

“Yeah?” Nick says.

“Vasily tell his uncle I not bother girls, so Antonin want to talk to me.”

“Huh,” Nick says. “Okay, good.”

Nick’s not expecting Antonin Andreov to sit Bob down and tell him exactly how his trafficking operation works, but this is the first piece of the puzzle, and it’s good to get it on record.

Still, when Tuesday rolls around, he can’t help thinking that this is something Bob can’t talk his way out of, if they find it. He frowns at the wire, dark against Bob’s bare chest, and smooths the tape down carefully. He’s reluctant to take his hands away, to step back and let Bob go.

He looks up and catches Bob’s eye. Bob glances away quickly. His cheeks are pink and he’s biting his lip, and Nick is suddenly conscious of how close they’re standing, the warmth of Bob’s body under his hands.

Nick backs up and forces a smile. “That should do it.”

*

Everything goes fine. Nick listens in on the conversation, but it’s mostly Russian. Bob tells him later it’s what they expected, coded, deniable, nothing that would stand up in court.

Bob is assigned to drive a truck from the warehouse to the railroad yards. He doesn’t know what’s in it, or what happens to it after he parks it there.

But it’s a start.

Bob gets more assignments. Enough to know there are women in the truck, sometimes coming, sometimes going. Enough to start figuring out patterns.

In February, the Department of Homeland Security stops one of the trains after it leaves Columbus and takes all the women into custody.

“It wasn’t us,” Nick says. He is so fucking pissed. If DHS is running their own operation, if someone has gone over his head…

Bob’s mouth is tight and unhappy. “Antonin is very angry. He think someone is traitor.”

“Shit. If you need to get out—”

Bob shakes his head. “Vasily say, Antonin’s boss come here, because of this.”

It’s an opportunity they can’t pass up. “When?”

“Three days.”

“Okay,” Nick says. “But—”

“Yes, yes,” Bob says. He rolls his eyes. “I tell you if I am in danger.”

Nick huffs. He hates getting predictable.

*

Nick is in the surveillance van with Artem for the meeting with the Andreovs’ boss.

It’s all in Russian. He can recognize Antonin’s voice, smooth and oily, and Vasily’s, flat-out nervous. He assumes the bored, condescending voice that Antonin defers to is his boss. But other than that, he has no idea what’s going on.

Then Vasily says something, too-fast and almost shrill, and Nick recognizes Bob’s cover name.

Bob says something back. All Nick can understand is _nyet_. Bob sounds mostly calm, but Artem is frowning now. Nick doesn’t like that look at all.

“What?” he says.

Artem opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Bob says, quiet and helpless, “Nick.”

Nick is out of the van before he hears the shot.

Behind him, Artem is yelling into the radio, _officer down, officer down_.

Nick slams through the warehouse door, gun drawn. A startled Russian on the other side starts raising his own gun.

“Police, everyone freeze!” Nick shouts, automatic.

The Russian hesitates, but only for a second. Nick fires, and he goes down.

The warehouse is in chaos, gunfire, people shouting in Russian, running for the doors. Artem is at his back now. He’s shouting in Russian, too, and it sounds like _Police, everyone freeze!_ just from the tone of voice.

Nick doesn’t care about any of that. All he cares about is Bob, on the ground, with Vasily standing over him. Vasily has a gun in his hand. He turns towards Nick, and the gun comes up, and Nick shoots him. He’s aiming for his shoulder, but he doesn’t really care where he hits, just as long as Vasily goes down.

Nick drops to his knees next to Bob. Blood is soaking through his shirt over his stomach. Nick pushes the fabric aside, presses his palm flat against the wound.

Bob blinks up at him. “I think they know,” he whispers.

“Shut up,” Nick says roughly.

Bob smiles faintly, his eyes slipping shut. His blood is hot and wet against Nick’s skin.

“No, shit,” Nick says. He cups Bob’s cheek with his other hand. “Don’t shut up.”

Bob opens his eyes and looks at Nick.

“Please.” It just slips out, and he doesn’t know if he’s talking to Bob or some higher power. “Just stay with me, okay?”

He thinks Bob maybe nods against his hand, and then the paramedics are there, shoving him out of the way, and there’s nothing more he can do.

_Please._

*

Nick has to go down to the station to get debriefed.

“You’ll be the first to know,” Jack says. “As soon as we hear anything about Bobrovsky.”

Nick has Bob’s blood all over his clothes, and the evidence techs make him hand them over. He changes into a ratty old pair of sweats from his locker.

He answers all of Jack’s questions by rote, fills out the paperwork numbly and probably all wrong.

He’s clutching a paper cup of terrible coffee and trying to make the words on the Discharge of Service Weapon form make sense when Jack stops at his desk.

“Bob made it out of surgery,” he says. “He’s stable.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Nick says. The rush of relief is almost nauseating.

“Go home, Foligno,” Jack says. “You can finish this in the morning.”

Nick doesn’t make it home. He crashes on the couch in the break room. He doesn’t remember what he dreams about.

*

Vasily was the one who tipped off DHS. He was trying to undermine his uncle, make him look bad to the organization. When their boss actually showed up, he panicked and threw Bob under the bus. He picked Bob because he was new, and maybe because he was gay, and it was just a weird coincidence that Bob actually was a cop.

Vasily makes it out of surgery, too, and ends up being extremely willing to cooperate, given that the alternative is life in prison for shooting a cop. (A very short life, once his uncle finds out about his attempted coup.)

“So he’s going to testify against Antonin and his boss about the trafficking,” Nick says.

“Good,” Bob says. He looks pale and exhausted in his hospital bed, and the little smile he gives Nick makes something catch painfully in his chest.

They’re both quiet for a minute, then Nick says, “I should go.”

Bob’s smile fades. “Okay.”

Nick wants to wrap him up in a huge, crushing hug, but he settles for squeezing his hand instead.

Then, because that’s not quite enough, he leans in to kiss Bob’s forehead. Bob tips his chin up at the last moment, and Nick’s lips brush against his.

Nick freezes. “Sorry—” he starts.

Bob lifts his head and kisses him, gentle, unmistakable.

“Oh, okay,” Nick says breathlessly.

He sounds like an idiot, but he doesn’t even care, because Bob is smiling at him, huge and bright and happy.


	27. Sidney Crosby/Shea Weber, long-distance post-Olympics

Shea doesn’t actually mean for it to be a thing, at the start.   
  
They beat Team USA, which means they’ll be playing for gold. He feels it, the whole team feels it, that bright, fierce sense of anticipation. He’s not cocky enough to believe they’ve got the gold already, but his chest is full of this rock solid faith in his team, and he believes it’s possible. He can’t stop grinning.  
  
Sid is trying to unlock the door to their room, and Shea wraps him up in a bear hug from behind.  
  
Sid bursts into helpless giggles. He doesn’t try to shake him off while he fumbles with the lock. Shea lets go when the door opens. Sid closes it behind them, and there’s something soft and hopeful on his face when he looks at Shea.  
  
Shea doesn’t even question why it seems like a good idea to close the distance between them, to tip Sid’s chin up and kiss him.   
  
If he thought about it at all, he would have figured it was just an Olympics thing. The Olympics are intense, but there’s something about them that feels almost unreal, two weeks of time that happen outside of everyone’s real life. What happens in the Olympic Village stays in the Olympic Village.  
  
And maybe the thing with Sid would have, if they hadn’t played each other a week after they got back.   
  
They’re supposed to have put the Olympics behind them at that point, go back to being rivals, competitors. But when he sees Sid standing outside the hotel, he feels that tug of _teammates_ again, feels the thrill of the medal around his neck and Sid tucked under his arm.  
  
Sid slides into Shea’s car. “Kuni is bailing to Skype with his family,” Sid says. “It’s just us.”  
  
Sid’s smiling at him, wide and crooked.  
  
Shea has reservations at a nice steakhouse near the Pens’ hotel, but looking at Sid now… “How about take-out?” he asks.  
  
Sid’s smile gets a little brighter. “Yeah, sounds good.”  
  
They eat chicken marsala in Shea’s kitchen and swap blowjobs in his bedroom.   
  
Sid calls a cab afterwards. He leans in to kiss Shea, his hair mussed and his shirt half-unbuttoned. “See you on the ice,” he says.  
  
“Absolutely,” Shea says.  
  
(The Pens win, 3-1, and they don’t see each other again for the rest of the season.)  
  
*  
  
The Preds don’t make the playoffs. The Pens flame out in the second round.   
  
Shea kind of wants to text Sid, but he’s not sure what he can say that can make that better.  
  
*  
  
They see each other again at the Hockey Canada event where they’re supposed to get their Olympic rings.   
  
Three times is a pattern, Shea thinks vaguely as he pushes Sid up against the wall in his hotel room and kisses him breathless. Sid’s hands are knotted in Shea’s suit jacket, and he’s laughing against Shea’s mouth.  
  
They leave their rings on when they fuck.  
  
Afterwards, they sprawl out on the mattress, Sid on his stomach and Shea on his back, and talk about next season.  
  
Trotz is the only coach Shea’s ever had in the NHL, and Sid won his only Cup with Bylsma. But they’re both tired of being good but not quite good enough.   
  
“We’re good enough,” Sid says. “I know we are, we just need…”  
  
He trails off. Shea traces idle patterns on Sid’s back and tries to picture playing against him in the Cup finals next season. It’s a good thought.  
  
*  
  
When Hornqvist and Spaling get traded, Shea does the right thing and calls them to say, _Good luck, we’ll miss you, you were an important part of this team._  
  
Sid calls before Shea can get Neal’s number from Dicky or management.  
  
“You’re going to take care of Nealer, right?” Sid says. “Paulie’s got a list of instructions, we’ll pin it to Nealer’s sweater when we send him down—”  
  
Shea laughs. “Yeah, Dicky’s going through a weird domestic phase, we’ll hook the two of them up. You’re gonna make sure Horny and Spals put some good numbers up, right?”   
  
“I’ll see what I can do,” Sid says, dry as dust.  
  
Shea gets Neal’s number from Sid and gives him Spaling’s and Hornqvist’s.   
  
Shea texts Neal, the usual _Welcome to the team thing_. Then on impulse, he texts Sid, _Dicky’s got the guest room all ready made up._  
  
 _Good_ , Sid says. _Keep me posted._  
  
Shea does.  
  
*  
  
When the Pens come to town, there’s a little mini-Preds reunion dinner the night before the game.  
  
Shea’s found it gets easier as he gets older, seeing good guys come and go. Easier to stay friends, to leave things on the ice.  
  
He gives Hornqvist and Spaling a ride back to their hotel. There’s a flurry of fist-bumping and shoulder-slapping, and then Shea’s alone. He checks his phone, answers a couple of texts. He doesn’t admit to himself what he’s waiting for until a cab pulls up behind him and Sid, Malkin, and Martin spill out onto the sidewalk.  
  
Shea watches in the rearview mirror as Sid peels off from the others and walks up to his car.  
  
Shea rolls the window down and Sid leans in, smiling.   
  
“Looking for a good time?” Sid asks, waggling his eyebrows.  
  
He is looking for more than that, Shea realizes with a sharp twist in his chest. The words dry up in his throat, but maybe Sid sees it on his face, too. Sid’s cheerfully dirty smile fades, and he gives Shea a long look.   
  
Then he gets in the car. “Let’s start with the good time, and figure it out from there.”  
  
Shea’s mind is racing down a path of Skype dates and phone sex and twice-a-season games, finding excuses to train with Sid in the summer and meet up on off-days.  
  
Then Sid reaches out and takes Shea’s hand, laces their fingers together. That anxious list in Shea’s head goes still and quiet.  
  
“Yeah,” Shea says, squeezing Sid’s hand back. “I can do that.”


	28. Sid/Geno, bodyguard AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just want bodyguard!Geno who is deeply, hopelessly in love with Prince Sidney, who’s engaged to be married to a Russian prince, the younger son of Tatyana Ovechkina. 
> 
> (I blame this on [those](http://crosbye.tumblr.com/post/105537906325) [gifsets](http://so-hockey-eh.tumblr.com/post/105452845769/an-early-holiday-present-for-pens-fans-im) from the Whirl photoshoot.)

Geno is the son of the head of security for the Ovechkin family, and they send Geno over to be one of Sid’s bodyguards as a symbolic gesture, representing their commitment to protecting Sid.

Geno doesn’t mean to fall in love with Sid, with someone he can’t have, someone he’s supposed to protect with his life. But he can’t help it.

(For a little while, he hates Alex for being the one who will get to have Sid. But it’s politics, it’s bigger and more powerful than all three of them, and hating Alex won’t change anything.)

The engagement lasts years, so Sid and Alex can finish university, so Alex can do his military service and Sid can go to business school. (So their parents can finish the negotiations and assess the political implications of the alliance.)

But eventually, there is one last ball in Sid’s honor in Cole Harbor. After that, he’ll go to Russia, for two weeks of balls and tours and media appearances before the wedding.

It feels like a long night, even if they’re done by eleven. Sid walks down the red carpet towards the limo. He’s smiling his stiff media smile for the crowds of reporters and onlookers lining the carpet.

Geno’s got one eye on Sid and one eye on the crowd, but it’s instinct more than anything else that makes him grab Sid, tackle him to the ground just before the shot rings out.

Geno feels a searing flash of pain along his arm. He stays down, covering Sid’s body with his own. The crowd is screaming, panicking. Martin and Letang going running past, into the press of people.

Flower throws the door of the limo open, and Geno drags Sid up, shoves him towards the car. Sid looks shaken but he stays calm. He lets Geno manhandle him, lets Geno do his job.

Geno slams the door shut behind them. “Go, go!” he snaps, and Dupuis floors it, pulling away from the curb in a squeal of rubber.

“Sid, you okay?” Geno asks.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sid says. “Geno—”

“Sid, there’s blood—” Flower starts.

“It’s not mine,” Sid says.

Flower shoots a quick glance at Geno, and Geno shrugs.

The blood is a steady trickle down his arm now, soaking into his tuxedo jacket, slowly turning the cuff of his dress shirt red.

Flower still pats Sid down gently anyway. Sid frowns, but before he can argue, they’re pulling up at the palace.

They’re separated then, Flower hustling Sid inside to the private quarters, and Geno going with security to get debriefed and have his arm patched up.

It’s just a graze along the outside of his bicep. He doesn’t even get stitches. The debriefing seems to take forever, though.

Finally, they let him go. He’s lost his shirt and jacket to the medical staff. He makes his way to his room and sits down on the edge of the bed.

He feels exhausted, hollow with the aftermath of the adrenaline rush.

Sid opens the connecting door between their rooms and pokes his head in. “Geno?”

He’s dressed for bed, in just a t-shirt and boxers, and his hair has been mussed out of its carefully gelled style. Seeing him makes something ease in Geno’s chest.

“Sid,” he says. “You okay?”

“I’m not not the one that got shot,” Sid says, crossing the room. He comes to stand between Geno’s knees.

“Is nothing,” Geno says, looking up at him.

Sid reaches out, his fingers hovering over the bandage on Geno’s arm. “Fuck, Geno,” he says softly. “You could have died.”

Geno swallows. “Am fine.”

Sid’s expression is intense, angry and almost protective. He shakes his head, then leans in and kisses Geno’s mouth.

Geno lets out a shocked sound. Sid cups his jaw, kissing him with fierce, desperate heat.

“Geno, please, let me,” Sid says. “Just this once, I can’t, I need—”

It is stupid and reckless and Geno knows, _knows_ it will hurt worse to have this only once. He nods anyway.

Sid kisses him again, and this time Geno kisses back, just as hungry, just as desperate.

Sid nudges him back, until he’s stretched out on his back on the mattress. He undoes Geno’s pants, and Geno lifts his hips up so Sid can pull them off.

Sid straddles his thighs and runs his hands over Geno’s shoulders and chest, like he’s checking for injuries, checking that Geno really is all right. Geno’s hard already, straining against the fabric of his briefs. Sid runs a possessive hand over his cock, and Geno bites back a whimper.

He reaches up and tugs at the hem of Sid’s t-shirt. “You, too,” he says.

Sid pulls the t-shirt over his head and tosses it aside. Geno runs his eyes greedily over Sid’s broad shoulders. Sid leans down and kisses him, rocks his hips against Geno’s. Geno wraps his arms around Sid’s back and holds on.

He could come like this, Sid’s solid, compact weight pressing him into the mattress, Sid’s cock dragging against his own through two layers of fabric. But if he’s going to do this, he doesn’t want just a taste.

“Sid,” he says, low and gravelly. “Sid, fuck me.”

Sid sucks in a ragged breath. He lifts his head. His eyes are very dark. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You have stuff?”

Geno jerks his chin towards the closet. “Jacket pocket.”

Sid goes still. Sid hasn’t asked for them in years, but Geno still carries lube and condoms in the pocket of his tuxedo jacket, like a good, prepared bodyguard. He thinks Sid is going to say something about it, but after a beat, Sid just nods and gets up.

Geno wriggles out of his briefs. He presses the heel of his hand against his dick as he watches Sid come back.

Sid climbs onto the mattress. Geno spreads his thighs, draws one knee up.

Sid ducks his head to brush his cheek against Geno’s knee, press a kiss to Geno’s skin there. He opens a packet of lube, spills it over his fingers. He rubs one slick finger over Geno’s asshole, and presses inside.

Sid goes slowly, carefully, like Geno is something fragile. It makes Geno’s chest feel tight, like it can’t hold everything he’s feeling.

He wants this to last, but Sid’s tenderness will destroy him. He bumps Sid with his knee. “I’m not break,” he says.

“Hmmm,” Sid says. But he pushes back in with two fingers.

He twists his hand, curling his fingers, and it sends a flash of heat through Geno’s gut. Geno gasps, his hips pushing up.

Sid does it again, the drag of his fingertips lighting Geno up from the inside. Sid is watching him, and Geno closes his eyes against that intent focus.

“Sid, c’mon,” Geno says. “Want to feel you.”

The rhythm of Sid’s hand falters. “Fuck,” Sid breathes.

“Yes,” Geno says, and it comes out pushy and needy at once.

Sid slides his fingers out of Geno and reaches for a condom.

He stretches out over Geno, leaning in to kiss him, quick and soft, before he pushes into him.

Geno sighs and spreads his legs wider. It’s a stretch, a thin edge of pain that just makes the heat in blood sweeter, more intense. He’ll feel it tomorrow, the whole plane ride to Russia.

Sid slides all the way home and stops moving, head bowed, until Geno rolls his hips up.

“Sid, move.”

Sid lifts his head. He’s panting, a flicker of something wild behind his eyes.

And then Sid starts moving. He fucks Geno hard and fast, leaning up to kiss him with bruising pressure.

Geno groans and digs his fingers into the smooth flex of Sid’s back, like he can pull Sid in even deeper.

Sid drags his mouth over Geno’s throat, sucks a bruise into his skin.  “Geno, Geno,” he gasps. “Wanna see you come, wanna feel it.”

Geno’s breath catches in his chest. Sid’s hand is on his cock now, stroking him viciously fast.

“Come on,” Sid says, and Geno does, spilling all over his stomach and Sid’s hand.

Sid makes a low, pleased noise in the back of his throat. He snaps his hips, thrusting raggedly into Geno. It sends bright little aftershocks through his body.

Geno palms the back of Sid’s neck, pulls him down into a messy, open-mouthed kiss, and Sid shudders all over and comes.

The room is quiet except for their rough breathing. Finally, Sid sighs deeply and pulls out. He makes a face as he takes care of the condom, dropping it onto the empty wrapper and lube packets on Geno’s nightstand.

He flops down next to Geno, and Geno rearranges them, rolling onto his good side so Sid is at his back and Geno’s facing the door.

Sid slides his arm around Geno’s waist, presses his forehead against Geno’s shoulder. “I know what you’re doing,” he mumbles.

“Shhhh, sleep now,” Geno says.

Sid huffs out a breath, but Geno can feel him slowly relax against him, his breathing evening out.

Geno wants to make this part last, but sleep pulls him under before he can do more than lace his fingers together with Sid’s.


	29. PK/Carey, phone sex over All Star break

“That’s fucking bullshit,” Carey says, scowling, when the names are announced.

“C’mon, are you surprised?” PK asks.

Carey doesn’t say anything, which means he is.

It’s cute. PK’s not surprised. It stings like fuck, but he’s not surprised.

“Whatever, man, I’ll just have a nice weekend getaway some place warm and tropical,” PK says. “Try not to strain anything.”

Carey snorts. “I’ll see what I can do.”

*

PK lets Chucky talk him into going to Miami with him and Gally for the break.

PK changes into swim trunks and a polo and prepares to hit the beach.

“But—” Gally says, and glances longingly at the tv.

“No,” PK says. “We can watch the highlights later. I didn’t come all this way to watch Chucky’s tv.”

Gally sighs, but PK wins.

They spend the day on the beach. Chucky and Gally splash around in the water some, but PK just lounges in the sun and people-watches. It’s kind of amazing. South Beach is pretty much the only place where he feels his abs may not be quite up to par.

They go out clubbing that night. Chucky’s got a few more weeks before he’s legal in the US, but they make it work. PK dances with a couple of people, but mostly sits in the back and nurses a drink, watching Gally and Chucky strike out with a long line of gorgeous women.

He knows what the schedule is for the All Star weekend. Based on his experience in Raleigh, tonight is the get-crazy-drunk-with-your-temporary-teammates night.

So he’s a little surprised when Carey texts him. He opens it, and almost drops his phone.

It’s a dick pic. Carey’s chest is bare, his jeans unzipped. He’s hard, one hand wrapped around the base of his dick. The light is soft and low, and PK can recognize the crisp, generic blankness of hotel sheets beneath him.

In all the time they’ve been hooking up, Carey has never sent him a dick pic. PK has sent him enough dick pics and selfies to fill up his phone (if Carey’s kept any; PK doesn’t know), but Carey just sends the occasional picture of his dogs, or his horse.

PK stares at the photo for a long moment. Finally, he sends back _??????!!!!!!!???_

_wish you were here,_ Carey says.

_shldn’t u be out drinkin?_ PK says.

There’s a pause, and then another picture, Carey’s palm rubbing over the head of his cock this time.

_wish you were here,_ he sends again.

Jesus.

PK stands up. Chucky looks up from his own phone, startled.

PK drops some cash on the table. “I’m gonna go,” he yells over the music.

Chucky’s eyebrows go up. “Booty call?” he says.

PK shrugs. “Yeah,” he says. “Don’t hurry back.”

Chucky makes a face at him.

When he gets to the sidewalk, he calls Carey.

“Subby,” Carey says, almost a sigh.

“Cash Money. Why aren’t you out partying? You miss me that much?” PK starts walking back towards Chucky’s place.

“Yeah,” Carey says. “It’s not the same without you. It was more fun when you were here.”

PK laughs. He’s pretty sure Carey was out with the guys for at least a little while. He’s always more talkative when he’s been drinking.

“When I was there you barely looked twice at me because I was a rookie,” PK says.

Carey makes a vague noise of disagreement.

“Besides, it wouldn’t be as much fun as the Olympics,” PK says. “So why even bother?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Carey says. He sighs and PK can hear the sheets rustle faintly in the background as he shifts. PK wonders if he’s still hard, if he’s still touching himself.

PK presses his palm flat against the outside of his thigh so he doesn’t try to adjust himself on the sidewalk.

“You should be here,” Carey says.

PK grimaces up at the sky. “Nah, it’s no big deal, plenty of teams only got to send—”

“Stop,” Carey says. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have— I wish I was there.”

“Me, too,” PK says.

“What would we do if I was?” Carey asks.

PK nods at Chucky’s doorman and gets in the elevator. “I’d make you go skinny dipping.”

“Ugh,” Carey says.

“It’s so warm here. I mean, the locals are all wearing like sweaters and jackets, but, seriously, it’s so nice out.”

Carey snorts, unimpressed.

“Then we’d have to come back here to shower,” PK says.

“Ohhhh,” Carey says.

PK opens the front door, makes sure he locks it behind him. He kicks out of his shoes and heads for the bedroom.

“If I blow you after, it’s kind of a waste of the shower, right? I’ll just get you all hot and sticky again. But you don’t want to get saltwater on the sheets.”

Carey’s breathing sounds harsher now, faster. PK puts him on speaker, drops the phone on the bed so he can strip.

“What do think we should do?” PK asks.

“Tile’s too hard on the knees,” Carey says, low and rough. “And I don’t want to wait. I say you fuck me in your bed as soon as we walk through the door. The hell with the saltwater, we’ll need to change the sheets after any way.”

PK groans at that image. “Yeah, I, definitely.”

“Are you naked?” Carey asks.

“Yeah,” PK says, fisting his cock.

“Show me,” Carey says.

PK grabs his phone and stretches out on the bed. He holds it up at an angle over his head, so he can get a shot down the length of his body.

He sends it to Carey, and after a beat, Carey makes a low, pleased sound.

“You still touching yourself?” PK asks.

“Yeah,” Carey says.

PK doesn’t even have to ask. His phone buzzes, and there’s another picture of Carey’s hand wrapped around his cock. There’s a drop of precome beading at the tip, wet and shiny. PK can practically taste it.

“Fuck, that’s so hot, Pricey, you’re so hot, wanna get my mouth on you—”

Carey lets out a strangled moan. “Fuck, PK.”

His voice is absolutely wrecked, and PK knows he just came. “Yeah, that’s right, I’m here, I got you, babe.”

Carey is panting. PK’s jerking himself off fast and rough, heels braced on the bed, thighs spread wide.

“I wanna see,” PK says.

Carey takes a quick, shaky breath. After a minute, PK’s phone buzzes again. Carey’s cock is still hard, curving back towards his stomach, and there’s come pooled in the cut of his hipbone.

PK’s breath comes out in a rush.

“You wanna clean me up?” Carey asks. His voice is slow and lazy now, humming with satisfaction.

“Wanna mess you up some more,” PK says breathlessly.

Carey laughs, and PK comes, hips arching up off the bed, pushing up into his fist.

They’re quiet for a long moment as their breathing slows down. PK stretches out, warmth spilling sweet and easy through his muscles.

Finally, he can ask, “So, really, how’s it going?”

“Not bad,” Carey says. “I think my save percentage is going to go down without my favorite d playing in front of me.”

“Aww!” PK says.

Carey clicks his tongue. “I meant Emelin!”

“Mmmm hmmmm,” PK says. “You know you love me best.”

Carey doesn’t say anything, which means he does.


	30. Bollig/Shaw, praise kink + phone sex

If you tell Brandon Bollig he's hot, he'll smirk and say, “I know.” (If you tell him he's pretty, well, that's a different story.) (Literally and figuratively.)

If you tell him he's a great hockey player, he'll say the same thing, but he won't mean it the same way. Brandon's played with great hockey players, he's won a Cup with fucking amazing players, and he knows exactly where he lines up relative to guys like that.

He's a guy who's pretty fucking happy to score two goals in the playoffs.

Shawzy calls him after the second one. 

It's late, and Brandon's already home.

"Fuck, yeah!" Andrew yells when Brandon picks up. 

Brandon laughs, still buzzing with the feel of a playoff goal, a playoff win.

"You've got more goals than Hossa has so far," Andrew says, and Brandon stops laughing.

"Shut up." The last thing he needs is the hockey gods thinking he's disrespecting _Marian Hossa_.

"Okay, but that goal is worth phone sex, at least."

"Yeah," Brandon says, letting his voice go deep and lazy. "I'd be into that."

"So," Andrew says. "What are you wearing?"

Brandon rolls his eyes. "Nothing at all."

"Really?" Andrew says.

Brandon's wearing his oldest, softest pair of sweats, the ones with the fraying hem and the saggy elastic. "Just waiting for you to call, baby," he coos.

Andrew snorts.

"What are you wearing?" Brandon asks.

"Um," Andrew says, and Brandon can picture it, his familiar ratty boxers and faded t-shirt, the stuff you wear when you're not trying to impress anyone. "What do you want me to be wearing?"

"How about nothing?"

"Yeah, I can do that," Andrew says. 

There's a rustling sound from the other end, and Brandon takes that opportunity to switch over to speaker, strip off his sweats.

He stretches out on his back and palms his dick. He's not hard yet, but there's a little curl of heat and anticipation in his gut that says he'll get there soon. 

"What would I get for that goal if you were here for real?" Brandon asks.

"I'd ride you," Andrew says, matter-of-fact, zero to sixty with no warm-up at all.

"Jesus," Brandon says. He rolls over, digs the lube out of the nightstand.

"You probably have to talk to the press after that game, so I'm going straight back to your place to get ready."

"What, like candles and rose petals?" Brandon says. He wraps a slick hand around his dick, gives himself a couple of easy strokes.

"Yeah, sure, why not? A little bit of romance before I get a couple of fingers in my ass." Andrew's breathing hitches, his voice getting rougher around the edges. "Get myself all wet and open for you."

"Shit," Brandon says, a long, drawn-out sigh. 

"I know you're not going to want to wait around and do it yourself when you get here. You did all those interviews with a hard-on, knowing I'm here waiting for you."

For a second, Brandon's grip falters, fantasy disrupted by the memory of doing press with no impatience, no hurry to get home to an empty bed.

"Are you hard for me?" Andrew asks, and Brandon pushes that thought aside.

"Yeah," he says.

"Good," Andrew says. "I'm gonna get you flat on your back, make you put your hands above your head and leave them there."

"Make me, huh?" 

Brandon can almost hear the eye roll. "Fine, I'm gonna ask nicely and you're gonna do it because you know I'm going to make it worth it."

"Yeah, I guess," Brandon says. But he reaches his other hand back up over his head, grips the base of the headboard.

"I was thinking reverse cowgirl at first, but I wanna see your face when I get your dick inside me."

Brandon groans, eyes slipping shut as he pictures pushing up into the tight, slick heat of Andrew's body, instead of his own hand.

"Slow at first, so I can really feel it, and then I'm gonna fucking--" Andrew drags in a ragged breath. "Fucking ride you through the mattress."

"Yeah," Brandon rasps. He can see it, half memory, half fantasy, Andrew grinning down at him, cocky and smug. 

"I'm going to make it so good for you, you deserve it." Andrew's talking fast now, a breathless rush. "Fucking beauty goal, way to step up for your team. They're lucky to have you."

Brandon's whole body flushes hot, embarrassment and want and need tangled up together. "Fuck, Andy."

"Yeah, c'mon, babe," Andrew says, low and fierce.

Brandon comes, a hard fast rush like lightning running through his veins. He can hear a muffled groan from Andrew through the phone, then Andrew's panting breath like an echo of his own. He lets go of the headboard, flexes his hand, stiff from how hard he was holding on.

Finally Andrew says, "Hurry up and kick Anaheim's ass so we can do this in person the next time you score a goal."

Brandon huffs out a laugh. "You're not going to let me fuck you if I score a goal on your team, you petty, competitive bastard."

Andrew makes an indignant sound.

"See you soon," Brandon says. One way or the other.

"Yeah," Andrew sighs.

He sounds so sleepy and pleased that the sharp, bitter twist of that thought smooths out into something sweeter, and Brandon's smiling when he falls asleep.


	31. Sid/Geno, D/s AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings about Sid being a confident, generous dom who is fiercely protective of sub!Geno.

The only reason Sid's protectiveness doesn't grate on Geno's nerves is because Sid acts that way with the whole team.

Geno thinks Sid is like a kitten trying to be a lion when he's first made captain, complaining to the refs, outraged, about every unfair penalty his teammates take, every dirty hit that goes uncalled. Mario talks to him about it, or maybe Therrien, and Sid stops doing it as much. He yells at the offending players instead, finishes his checks harder, holds grudges against the ones that hurt his teammates. He fights. 

Geno is used to teammates treating him differently, but it still sticks in his throat like a fish bone. Sid at least acts like he's the whole team's dom, not Geno's, and he's grateful for that. 

At first, anyway.

Somewhere along the line, the gratefulness doesn't disappear, but it takes on a wistful, melancholy edge. 

(Geno thinks maybe it started when they won the Cup, when Sid grabbed the back of his neck and pressed their foreheads together, soaked in sweat and champagne. Geno could barely understand him over the music and the shouting of their teammates. "So good," Sid yelled. "Conn Smythe, so fucking proud of you," and Geno's knees went weak.)

Sid doesn't act like he's Geno's dom, and more and more, Geno wishes that he would. Wishes that he were.

*

Staal's been hitting him hard all night, but Geno's not quite ready for the last one. He goes into the boards awkwardly. His shoulder lights up with pain, but worse is the way everything goes black for a second, the way everything feels scrambled and wobbly. 

He hears Sid shout his name, and he thinks he should get up, let Sid know he's okay. It takes a minute to get everything working together, and he pushes into a sitting position. The rink swims around him and steadies.

The roaring in his ears is the crowd. Sid sees him sit up. Relief flashes across his face before it hardens and he drops his gloves, rips his helmet off. Staal looks surprised for a second, and then the two of them are exchanging furious blows. 

Two trainers kneel next to Geno, ignoring the fight. They ask him questions, check his pupils quickly.

Geno wants to shake them off so he can watch Sid. He feels breathless in a way that has nothing to do with the hit, his stomach twisting and his skin hot.

Staal goes down, and the refs move in to pull Sid off. Sid is breathing hard, his eyes wild. There's a cut above his eyebrow and blood is trickling down the side of his face. He meets Geno's eyes. His flush deepens and he turns away, saying something to the ref.

"C'mon," Chris says, getting his hand under Geno's elbow. "Let's get you off the ice."

Geno struggles to his feet, the trainers bracing him. His knee and shoulder ache, but he can skate off slowly under his own power, leaning a little on Hornqvist. The crowd cheers, and the bench gives him stick taps as he goes by.

They put him in the quiet room, strip his gear off. They verify that nothing hurts more than it should, and ask him what his name is, what the date is, where he is right now. He's pretty sure he answers the questions right, but he still feels disoriented, unsettled, like something is missing. 

He hears Sid's voice down the hall, arguing. "--see Geno first," he's saying insistently. 

The door opens and Sid slips in. His eyes go to Geno's face immediately, fierce and searching. "Geno--"

It seems reasonable, _necessary_ for Geno to slide off the examining table and go to his knees.

Sid sucks in a quick, shocked breath. "Give us a minute," he says, and the trainers leave, closing the door behind them.

Sid pulls up a stool and sits in front of Geno. He runs his hand through Geno's hair, squeezes the back of Geno's neck. Geno feels that strange disorientation fading.

He slumps forward and rests his head against Sid's thigh. "Geno," Sid says again, low and shaky. His hand tightens. "You're mine, nobody gets to hurt you."

A soft, inarticulate noise catches in the back of Geno's throat. Calm settles over him, a feeling of peace and steadiness, smoothing over the pain and shock of the hit. 

He doesn't know how long he kneels there in the dim, quiet room, Sid stroking his hair. When he lifts his head, he feels almost drugged. Sid is watching him, his eyes wide and very dark. 

"Are you okay?" Sid asks.

Geno nods.

Sid seems to realize how they're sitting, what it looks like. He swallows and pulls his hand away from Geno's head. "Sorry," he says. "I know you don't want--"

Geno catches Sid's hand, presses a kiss to Sid's bruised and bloody knuckles. 

Sid exhales in a rush at the gesture. 

It feels easy in that moment to say, "Always want to kneel for you, Sid."

"Geno," Sid says, helplessly, and then he leans forward and kisses him.

It's hard and fierce and tastes like Sid's blood, and Geno leans up eagerly into it.

Sid pulls back, his breath coming faster. "Always," he says. "You're mine."

It's not quite a question, but Geno nods anyway.


	32. Brandon Saad/Patrick Sharp, D/s AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The short version is: Sharpy subs for the rookies when they need it.

They're mostly cocky little shits, but the pressure of playing in the big leagues gets to everyone, especially when you're new and young and trying to prove you deserve a place on the team. They're doms, when it starts to get overwhelming, they need someone they trust to focus on, a situation where they can be in control to settle them down and get them in a better place mentally.

He did it for Shawzy last season, but Brandon's not like him. Sharpy barely has time to be friendly with him his first year, up for a couple of games at the beginning and the end of the season. He gets an impression of quiet, reserved, very focused. When Brandon starts the season with them after the lockout, Sharpy gets the same vibe. 

(Sharpy's the one who starts the "Man-Child" nickname. It's not _entirely_ flirting.)

They start the season off with a bang, a point streak that keeps rolling even on the road. 

They're filing down the hotel hallway in San Jose, peeling off to their own rooms, when Andrew yells, "Sharpy!"

He's up on his tiptoes so he can get his arm around Brandon's shoulder. Brandon's fumbling with their keycard and his head jerks up, eyes going wide, when Andrew yells.

"What's up, Mutt?" Sharpy asks. 

"Saader's stressing out," Andrew says. Sharpy glances at Brandon, who's turning bright red. "He needs--"

Sharpy puts his hand over Andrew's mouth and pushes him back a step. He thinks if Andrew finishes that thought, Brandon is going (1) die of embarrassment and (2) deny it completely. "He needs you to shut up and let him have a night in peace? I agree, go bother Boller." 

Andrew looks between the two of them, and for once, does as he's told. "Yo, Boller!" he yells and takes off running down the hallway.

Sharpy pulls the keycard out of Brandon's hand and opens the door. He doesn't wait for Brandon to go first, just sweeps in ahead of him and drops his bag on the floor. 

Brandon follows warily.

Sharpy shrugs out of his suit jacket, toes his shoes off. He studies Brandon while he does. Andrew's right, Brandon looks tense, unhappy. Sharpy would bet anything that he's stressing about the fact that it's been nine games and he doesn't have a point. 

"What did Shawzy tell you?" Sharpy asks.

"That, that I should ask you to kneel for me. That it really helped him when he was first called up."

Sharpy nods. "So what do you think? You want me to?"

Brandon hesitates, shrugs. 

He's going to take that as a yes. "Okay, good. C'mon."

Sharpy nudges Brandon towards the bed, sits him down on the foot of it. He folds to his knees in front of Brandon, smooth and easy, Brandon's breath catches just a tiny bit. 

"So, what do you want to do?" Sharpy asks.

Brandon rubs his palms over his thighs. "I don't know."

Sharpy grins. "You want to fuck my mouth?"

"N-no," Brandon says, his cheeks going redder.

Sharpy grins wider. "Aww, is that--" he barely stops himself from saying _not romantic enough_ \-- "too aggressive for a first date?"

Brandon shrugs, not meeting Sharpy's eyes.

"How about I go down on you and you can tell me how beautiful my assist was tonight?" Sharpy offers.

Brandon swallows. "Okay, yeah."

Sharpy leans in and nuzzles Brandon's cock through his pants. Brandon takes a quick breath, but holds still. His cock jerks against Sharpy's cheek, starting to fill. Sharpy mouths at the tip of his cock, until the thin wool of Brandon's suit pants is soaked with spit and Brandon's breathing is quick and shallow. Sharpy unzips him, slides his cock out. He looks up at Brandon while he gives him a few easy strokes.

Brandon looks back, very serious. Sharpy gives him a dirty grin before he bends his head and slides Brandon's cock into his mouth. Brandon exhales in a rush. His hand skims over the back of Sharpy's head, settles there when Sharpy makes an encouraging noise.

Sharpy gives a damn good blowjob, if he does say so himself. He doesn't for anything fancy like deepthroating, just gets Brandon's dick sloppy wet and sets up a good rhythm with his hand and mouth. The room is quiet except for the slick sounds of his mouth and Brandon's harsh breathing. He can feel the strain in Brandon's thighs, the fine tremble as he gets close to the edge.

"Oh, fuck," Brandon whispers. "Sharpy--"

Sharpy pulls back and sucks hard at the head of his cock, looking up to meet Brandon's eyes. Brandon's hand clenches in his hair and he comes in his mouth.

Sharpy swallows. He sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Brandon's eyes are closed, his lips parted. He's still breathing fast.

Sharpy eyes him. "That didn't work for you."

Brandon opens his eyes, lets out an embarrassed laugh. "Um." He looks down at his softening dick. "It kind of really did?"

"No," Sharpy says. "You didn't get into that dom headspace."

"Oh," Brandon says. "No, I guess not."

Sharpy props one elbow on Brandon's thigh and rests his chin in his hand, studying Brandon's face. Shawzy liked wrestling until Sharpy let himself get pinned and then rubbing off against each other. Brandon, though...

"Maybe you should tell me what to do," Sharpy says.

Brandon looks dubious. "Like-- get me a bottle of water?"

"If you want. But I was thinking..." Sharpy lets his hand drop to his crotch, loosely gripping the hard line of his own cock under his pants. "I wanna get off. Tell me what I should do."

"Ohhh," Brandon says. He licks his lips, and his eyes drop to Sharpy's hand before coming back up to Sharpy's face. "Yeah, I can do that."

Sharpy feels a little curl of heat in the pit of his stomach. Yeah, he can do this, too.

"Um. Take your clothes off," Brandon says.

Sharpy starts to unbutton his shirt.

"No," Brandon says. "Stand up first. So I can see you."

Sharpy gives him an approving grin. He pushes up to his feet, takes a couple of steps back. He takes his time unbuttoning his shirt, making sure to flex when he shrugs it off. He unbuttons his suit pants, lets them slide off his hips. He steps out of the pooled fabric. It's hard to make taking your socks off sexy, but he tries.

The last thing he takes off are his boxer briefs, his cock bobbing as he slips them off.

Brandon watches him with that serious expression, sitting up straight. He lets Sharpy stand there naked for another beat before he says, "Lie down on the bed, on your back."

Sharpy puts a little swing in his hips as he obeys. He tucks one hand behind his head, lets the other rest on the top of his thigh.

"Spit in your hand," Brandon says. 

Sharpy obeys, but waits for Brandon to say, "Touch yourself."

Sharpy wraps his hand around his dick, slides it down in a slow, lazy motion. 

"Faster," Brandon says. 

Sharpy licks his lips and speeds up.

"Slide--" Brandon takes a quick breath. "Slide your hand over the head of your dick."

Sharpy twists his wrist at the top of his next stroke, dragging his palm over the head before he slides his hand down again. Heat shivers over his skin, his breath coming faster now. He works it into his rhythm, the twist at the end of each stroke. 

Brandon watches him. "Stop," he says.

Sharpy does. Brandon's eyes are very dark. He looks focused, intense. "Touch your balls," he says, and it comes out rough around the edges.

Sharpy lets go of his dick and cups his balls, stroking and tugging.

"Squeeze them," Brandon says. "Harder than that."

Sharpy tightens his grip, hard enough to hurt. He hisses in a breath, but his dick jumps against his belly, leaving slick little smears of precome on his skin.

Brandon drags his eyes back up to Sharpy's face. "Close your eyes," he says, and Sharpy does."Touch your dick again. Like before."

Sharpy starts stroking his cock again. 

"Show me what you like," Brandon says. He sounds steady, that uncertainty gone.

Sharpy licks his lips, and speeds up his strokes, tightens his grip. He angles his dick towards Brandon. He squeezes the head between his thumb and his index finger on every stroke. 

Brandon makes a soft, approving noise. "Fuck, Sharpy, you're so hot. And you know it, too, right?"

Sharpy keeps his eyes closed, keeps his hand moving on his cock, but he manages a smirk.

"And it was a fucking beautiful assist."

Sharpy's grin slips, his rhythm stuttering over the warm flush of the praise.

"Are you close?" Brandon asks.

"Yeah," Sharpy says roughly.

"Stop."

Sharpy does. He pants, the muscles of his stomach trembling. He's never gone under with the rookies. He gets off, sure, and it satisfies that caretaker instinct, but he's never really gotten into that headspace with them. He can feel it tugging at the edges of his mind now, though, and it sends a shiver of something that's not quite unease through him.

Brandon needs a minute to control his breathing, so his voice comes out steady when he says, "Start again, slow. Just touch the head."

Sharpy bites his lip, but he slides the tips of his fingers over the head of his dick. He squeezes it, rolls it between his finger and thumb, plays with the slit. 

"Stroke yourself, but keep it slow," Brandon says. 

Sharpy slides his fist down the length of his dick and back up again, slowly. He's wet, leaking, and his hand moves easily over his cock. His thighs are tight with the effort not to push up into his own hand, wanting more friction, more pressure.

"You can go a little faster."

Sharpy lets out a shaky breath and speeds up. He can feel Brandon's attention on him like a physical touch. Brandon doesn't have to ask to know he's close.

"Stop," Brandon says.

Sharpy whines in the back of his throat, but he stops. "Please," he says.

Brandon sucks in a sharp breath. "Okay, yes," he says hoarsely. "You can come."

Sharpy groans. His hand tightens on his dick and he comes in heavy pulses across belly. There's a roaring in his ears, his whole body buzzing with the rush of orgasm.

The bed dips as Brandon gets up. Sharpy's breath slows down, and he manages to drag his eyes open. Brandon's coming back from the bathroom with a washcloth.

He wipes the come off Sharpy's skin. He looks calm, his shoulders loose, his face soft. The stress and uncertainty have been washed away. Sharpy lets Brandon clean him up, pushing up into the touch for extra petting. 

"That worked for you," Sharpy says, almost a question.

"Yeah," Brandon says thoughtfully. "It did."

*

The next game, Brandon scores his first NHL goal.


	33. Carts/Richie, D/s AU

Mike's willing to acknowledge, after his first couple of weeks in Manchester, that ending things with Jeff when he got sent down might have been -- overreacting.

(“Doms,” Biz says, shaking his head. “If you can't be in control of a situation, you don't want to be in it.”

Biz is non-dynamic, and will sleep with basically anyone, so Mike doesn't know where he gets off being so judgy.)

Brownie texts him when Mike gets to New Hampshire, so do Kopi and Quickie, but Jeff doesn't. Mike gets it, but it still sucks.

He throws himself into hockey. The AHL isn't the NHL, but hockey is hockey. He misses Jeff anyway.

He misses Jeff's dumb, toothless grin, and that effortless sense of connection on and off the ice, misses being able to look over on the bench and see him every day.

(He misses the way Jeff rolls his eyes at every order Mike gives him, then goes under for him easy as breathing.)

It doesn't matter, though. He can't imagine having Jeff kneel for him over Skype. It would end the same, it would just take longer.

*

The Kings bring him back to L.A. after a few weeks.

It's not a real call up. He's there for tests, for more training and evaluation. He just has to smile and say, _Yes sir,_ and do the best he can. It's a weird kind of limbo, not really part of any team, waiting on Lombardi and Sutter's decisions. 

Jeff still doesn't text him. He sees Mike at the rink a couple of times and nods at him, not an asshole, but not friendly either. Mike's stomach twists. 

*

They put him back in the line up for the eastern road trip. 

They win the first game against New Jersey. Mike's barely sat down in his stall when Toffoli drops to his knees in front of Jeff.

Toffoli's grinning up at Jeff. Jeff smiles back indulgently. He says something low and quiet, scrubs his hand over Toffoli's hair, then gives him a gentle shove. Toffoli's grin gets bigger before he bounces to his feet. 

"It's just a hockey thing," Brownie says, and Mike realizes he's staring.

He jerks his gaze away, refocusing on his skates. "Oh," he says. He adds, a beat late, "It's none of my business who's kneeling for Carts."

Brownie snorts. "You're an idiot," he says.

Mike glares. "Oh, fuck you, if Nicole were in Manch and you were here--" He stops, because he knows it's dumb even as the words are coming out of his mouth.

Brownie gives him a deeply unimpressed look and bends down to start unlacing his skates.

From this angle, Mike can see the tattoo on the back of his neck, Nicole's initials right where a collar would lie if he were allowed to wear one on the ice. _It's not the same,_ Mike wants to say, but that feels just as stupid in his mouth.

*

They win the next two game of the road trip, too, but that sense of limbo doesn't go away. It doesn't feel like it did before. He's not putting up points, and he knows his spot on the roster isn't guaranteed. If Stoll gets healthy, if he can't score....

He's scratched for the game against Edmonton, the one where the Oilers are giving away points like they're Oprah. He watches the game from the press box, and it feels like there's no solid ground beneath his feet.

He's scratched for the other game against Edmonton, too, the one they lose, and that's when he knows they're not going to make the playoffs. They're not technically out yet, but if they can't come out hungry against Edmonton, they're not going to make it against Calgary and the Sharks. 

That night, lying in bed alone, he thinks about how maybe the last NHL playoff game he'll ever play was the Stanley Cup Final last year. It's not a bad way to go out, he just -- he thought he had more time before that.

*

They lose to Calgary, and that's it, they're out. Mike's on the ice for that one. He doesn't know if that's better or worse.

Afterwards, the room is heavy, quiet with a sick, shocked disappointment. Maybe Mike was the only one who believed this was coming. He watches Toffoli kneel for Jeff, watches Jeff run his fingers through Toffoli's hair and sit with him in silence. Finally, Toffoli lets out a shuddery breath and lifts his head.

_Next year,_ Jeff says. Mike can't hear him, but he can see the shape of the words.

Toffoli tries to smile, and Jeff cups his face, presses a quick, rough kiss to his forehead. Toffoli stands up slow, creakily, and goes to sit down next to Joner to finish changing.

Jeff doesn't move after that, head down, elbows braced on his thighs, his hands loose between his knees. Mike's hands itch with the desire to stroke his bent head, to feel the familiar brush of his sweaty, post-game hair under his palm.

"Carts," he says softly. "Hey, Jeff." 

Jeff turns his head, blinking. He looks beaten down, exhausted, and Mike's heart squeezes in his chest. 

"Come home with me," Mike says impulsively.

Jeff hesitates, and Mike cheats, reaching out to grip the back of Jeff's neck. He can feel the shiver that runs through Jeff, the way his shoulders slump.

"Okay," Jeff says hoarsely.

*

They have to get home first, though. Jeff doesn't sit next to him on the plane, and Mike is halfway convinced he's going to changes his mind by the time they get to LA.

But Jeff follows him out to his car, follows him into his house.

It's not until they're standing in Mike's bedroom that Jeff says, "What do you want, Richie?"

He wants a lot of things, but right in this moment -- "I want to take care of you," Mike says. He wants to make that flat, defeated look in Jeff's eyes go away, wants, _needs_ to see Jeff go under and find that calm, centered headspace.

Jeff closes his eyes for a second. "You asshole," he says.

Mike steps closer. "C'mon, Carts, let me--"

Jeff nods.

Mike puts his hand on the back of Jeff's neck and pulls him down into a kiss. Mike kisses with all the confidence he doesn't really feel in that moment, and Jeff sighs into it, opens his mouth and lets Mike lick inside. 

When Mike pulls back, he's breathing a tiny bit faster. He gives Jeff a shove towards the bed. Jeff rolls his eyes and turns towards the bed, already unbuttoning his shirt.

"Use your words, Richie," he says.

Mike rolls his eyes back, a grin tugging at his mouth despite himself. "Take your fucking pants off, Cartsy."

Mike follows his own orders, stripping out of his game day suit, down to just his boxers. On the way to the bed, he detours to the closet. The rope is where he left it before he went to Manch, lying in smooth coils in its box on the top shelf.

Jeff is sitting in the middle of the bed. He's left his boxer briefs on, too, following Mike's lead, or maybe just wanting a little bit of distance. His eyes drop to the rope in Mike's hands for a beat before he looks back at Mike's face.

Mike drops the rope on the pillows and climbs onto the bed to straddle Jeff's thighs. For a moment, they just look at each other. Then Mike half-shakes his head and leans in for another kiss. He puts all his weight into it, and Jeff folds underneath him, stretching out on his back. 

Mike finds Jeff's wrists on autopilot, grips them tight and tugs them above Jeff's head. He can feel the catch in Jeff's breath.

"Okay," Mike says. He squeezes Jeff's wrists hard, then lets go. He sits up and reaches for the rope. 

Jeff leaves his hands above his head.

Mike shakes one length of rope out. He knots the center of it around the heavy metal slats of the headboard, then picks up Jeff's wrist.

Jeff flexes his hand but doesn't pull away, doesn't move, his eyes on Mike's face.

Mike wraps one end of the rope around Jeff's wrist, loop after careful loop, until it forms a wide, snug cuff, then ties it off. He runs his fingers along the edge of the rope, checking the tightness, admiring the deep royal blue against Jeff's skin. Then he does the exact same thing with Jeff's other wrist.

"Good?" Mike asks.

Jeff pulls hard against the rope, hands clenching into fists, and goes nowhere. "Yeah," he says, his voice rough around the edges.

This is what Jeff wants after a loss, to be tied up, to struggle and be held down, held still. And this is what Mike wants after a loss, to have one thing completely in his control.

Mike runs his hands down the length of Jeff's body, just to touch, warm, smooth skin and lean, tense muscle, thinned down by the grind of the season. He grabs the other length of rope and shifts further down the bed. He presses Jeff's ankles together, wraps one end of the rope around them in a long line of figure eights. He can feel the restless, floaty unease in the pit of his stomach start to dissipate. He feels like he can breathe again.

He ties the other end of the rope to the frame at the foot of the bed, and then Jeff is stretched out in front of him. 

Jeff's cock is hard now, straining against the fabric of his boxers.

"God, you're so fucking hot like this," Mike says. He bends down and kisses Jeff's stomach, just above the waistband of his boxers. Jeff's abs jump and shiver under his lips. He kisses his way up Jeff's chest, making sure to press his mouth against the mottled bruises, a season worth of hits stamped on his skin. "Missed this, missed you."

"Shut up," Jeff growls. "Shut u--"

Mike kisses him, hard and deep, and Jeff makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat.

Mike barely breaks the kiss to throw his leg over Jeff's hips, to grip Jeff's biceps and settle all his weight into pinning Jeff down.

Jeff gasps and jerks against the ropes, a convulsive twist.

"I've got you," Mike says. He digs his fingers into the muscle of Jeff's arms, staring down at Jeff's face.

Jeff exhales, deep and slow, and his eyes go heavy. All the tension leaks out him, leaving him boneless under Mike's body.

"Yeah," Mike says. He brushes his mouth against Jeff's, barely a kiss. "I got you."

Mike shifts his hips, rubbing his ass against Jeff's dick, and Jeff makes that noise again, almost pleading. He could get them both off like this, grinding on each other like teenagers until they come in their boxers. But Jeff deserves better than that.

Mike lets go of Jeff's arms and slides down Jeff's body. Jeff's cock is already leaving a wet spot on his boxers. Mike pulls them down and gets a hand on the base of Jeff's cock. His dick is flushed deep red, almost hot to the touch, more wetness already beading at the tip.

Jeff flexes his thighs, trying to push up into Mike's grip. Mike doesn't tease him or try to drag it out. He lays his forearm across Jeff's hips, puts all his weight into it, and Jeff gasps before Mike even gets his mouth on Jeff's cock.

_You're so good,_ Mike wants to say, _good for me, good for Toffoli, good for the team._

But Jeff hates praise after a loss. He will bask in it after a win, but after a loss it makes him edgy and defensive. So Mike tries to say it with his hands instead, with the hot, wet press of his mouth.

Jeff comes with a ragged groan, flooding Mike's mouth. Mike swallows sloppily. When he lifts his head, Jeff's eyes are closed, his lips parted, red and shiny like he's been biting them. His hands are loose, all of the lines of his body relaxed.

Mike glances at the clock. It hasn't been that long, but he doesn't want to push it after the game and the flight. He unties Jeff with quick, methodical movements, loosens the cuffs of rope at his wrists and ankles and pulls them off.

Jeff's eyes are still heavy and soft. Mike pulls Jeff's boxers the rest of the way off, then sits back on his heels, lets his gaze slide over Jeff's body. Mike's hard as a rock. If everything was like it had been before, Mike would jerk off all over Jeff's abs and rub his come into Jeff's skin. But things aren't the same, so all he does is nudge Jeff's shoulder and say, "Turn over."

Jeff rolls over onto his stomach, and Mike straddles his waist. He digs his thumbs into the muscle of Jeff's neck and shoulder, working out the stiffness from being tied up. Jeff makes a soft, pleased noise. Mike's grip loosens, until he's not massaging Jeff as much as he's petting him, smoothing his palms over Jeff's back in long, slow strokes.

Finally, Jeff takes a breath like waking up from a sound sleep. The lingering pliancy in his muscles disappears. 

Mike's hands go still. "Hey," he says softly.

"Hey," Jeff rasps. He clears his throat. "I want to take a shower."

Mike ignores the twinge of disappointment. "Okay." He kneels up, shuffles aside so Jeff can get up. 

Jeff climbs off the bed carefully, heads for the bathroom and doesn't look back.

Mike flops onto his back with muffled groan when the water comes on. He gets his cock out, the first stroke of his hand tight and dry and rough, and almost enough to make him come right then. He closes his eyes, breathes in the scent of Jeff all over his sheets. He jerks off to the sense memory of Jeff going under for him, so much more vivid than anything he tried in Manch.

It takes him a minute to notice the sound of the shower has gotten louder. He drags his eyes open, one hand still on his cock. Jeff is watching him from the doorway, his face unreadable. Heat washes over Mike's skin when Jeff meets his eyes.

"Fuck, Carts," Mike gasps and comes all over his stomach. 

For a long moment, he just floats on the rush of it, his breath coming fast and rough. When he opens his eyes again, Jeff is still watching him.

"What-- did you want something?" Mike croaks.

After a minute, Jeff says, "Water."

"Okay," Mike says. Jeff goes back into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Mike exhales slowly. He sits up, peels his boxers off and wipes the worst of the come off of himself. He drops the boxers in hamper on the way out of the bedroom. He stops in the guest bathroom to clean up a little more, then goes downstairs to grab a couple of bottles of water from the fridge.

Jeff is sitting on the side of the bed when Mike gets back. He'd halfway expected Jeff to be dressed, but Jeff just has a towel wrapped around his waist. 

Mike holds a bottle out for him and Jeff takes it.

"What's going to happen next season?" Jeff asks, like they're in the middle of a conversation. "If you -- if you get traded or sent down again. Are you going to freak out and dump me again?"

"No," Mike says, fast and certain.

Jeff's mouth twists and he looks away, concentrating on opening the water and taking a sip.

"I fucked up," Mike says. It's hard to get out, but it makes everything easier. It makes Jeff look at him again. "I thought a clean break would be easier than long-distance, but it wasn't. It really, really wasn't. I'd rather-- I want whatever part of you I can have."

Jeff studies his face. "Okay," he says finally. "But you only get one shot at this."

Mike's chest expands with relief. "I only need one shot," he says, deliberately cocky. He closes the distance between them until he's standing between Jeff's knees.

Jeff snorts, looking up at him. "Technically, this is your second chance."

"Fuck advanced stats."

Jeff shakes his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He slides his arm around Mike's waist and rests his head against Mike's stomach. Mike runs his hand over Jeff's wet hair, down to rest on the back of his neck. Jeff sighs against his skin.

Mike feels something settle into place in his chest, like he's found the shore after a long time treading water. "Love you," he says.

"Yeah," Jeff says. He tilts his head enough to look up at Mike and smile, soft and rueful and fond. "Me, too."


	34. Nicklas Backstrom/Alexander Ovechkin, D/s AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Least stereotypical sub Ovechkin + least stereotypical dom Backstrom

It's not love at first sight.

When Nicky comes to the Caps, he's nineteen and Alex is twenty-one. They're young and dumb and cocky, and neither of them really know what they want out of life, aside from hockey.

Nicky doesn't even think about domming Alex, because Alex so clearly doesn't need him for anything, except maybe his passes on the ice.

And Alex doesn't even think about subbing for Nicky, because Nicky is quiet and wide-eyed and not even old enough to buy his own liquor in DC. 

But they're friends. They just click, on and off the ice. 

Alex buys him beer when they're out with the team, and also tries to wingman for him, chatting him up to cute subs that neither of them have enough English, those first couple of years, to close the deal with.

Nicky gets angry on Alex's behalf when the media implies Alex is a terrible sub, a terrible captain. Alex gets angry on Nicky's behalf when when the media implies Nicky is a weak and ineffective dom. 

Alex is the only one Nicky will let tease him out of a bad mood after a loss.

Nicky is the only one Alex wants to be around when they lose. He talks to the media like he's supposed to, checks in with his team like a good captain, but afterwards, he wants to sit on Nicky's couch, or the other bed in his hotel room, or next to him on the plane, and just be in his quiet, steady presence.

(Maria understands defeat, understands the bitter taste of losing, and Alex is grateful for that when they're together, but she's not team. It's not her loss.)

They share that unspoken knowledge that they're the ones who are supposed to carry this team, that they're what the franchise is trying to build around. They grow up into that responsibility together. They're part of a team, yes, but their partnership is the rock the team is built on.

(The rookies call them mom and dad, and it changes from day to day which one of them is which.)

And Alex on his knees for Nicky still doesn't occur to either of them.

Things change the season after the Olympics.

The first half of that year is pretty objectively terrible for Alex. Russia crashes and burns out of the Olympics on their own soil, crushing and humiliating defeat. Alex's father gets sick. Maria breaks off their engagement.

He wins gold at Worlds with Geno, but any other year, that victory wouldn't have the thin, sour edge of being not quite good enough. He thinks for the first time in years about asking to kneel for Geno, wanting something, anything to make that heartsick, unmoored feeling go away, at least for a little while.

But Geno is with Crosby now, and Alex doesn't ask.

Geno offers anyway, at the beginning of the next season, when they are in Pittsburgh for a game.

It's like losing a skate edge. Not painful, but it leaves him floundering, off-balance. He turns him down, them down. 

At the hotel, he runs into Nicky in the hallway, dressed for bed in basketball shorts and a too-big t-shirt, a bucket of ice in his hand.

Nicky looks at his face and says, "Want to watch tv?"

"Yes," Alex says gratefully.

They go to Nicky's room. Alex strips out of his nice clothes, down to boxers and an undershirt, because he knows Nicky won't mind. Nicky comes back from the bathroom with the ice wrapped in a towel. He sits down on the bed next to Alex, hissing a little when he presses the ice to his hip. 

They watch some reality tv show about home repair or house buying, Alex isn't really paying attention. When Nicky's hand gets cold, Alex takes over, holding the ice pack against Nicky's hip.

He butts his head against Nicky's shoulder. "Pet my hair," he demands, which he usually only does after a loss.

Nicky rolls his eyes, but he brings his hand up to comb his fingers through Alex's hair, rub his fingertips against Alex's scalp.

Alex sighs. He can feel himself settling, that off-balance feeling fading away in Nicky's calm, centered presence. 

"Are you all right?" Nicky asks quietly.

Alex has been saying _I'm fine_ all summer, all season so far, but he can't bring himself to lie to Nicky right now.

"Malkin ask if I want to kneel for him," he says finally.

Nicky's hand goes still for a moment. "Oh," he says. He starts petting Alex's head again. "Do you want that?"

Alex grimaces, trying to put it into words. "Zhenya has -- someone. There is no room for me." He wants to be on his knees for someone he knows, someone he trusts, but he doesn't want a pity-fuck from someone who's heart is already given elsewhere.

Nicky is quiet, and Alex looks up. Nicky is frowning, small and unhappy. 

"You should," he starts, then stops. "Do you need--"

It's like the world goes quiet, like everything just stops in this moment of perfect clarity, and Alex knows exactly what he needs. What he wants.

He lifts his head just enough so that Nicky's hand slips to the back of his neck, tips his chin up to offer Nicky his bare throat.

Nicky's eyes go wide. His thumb sweeps up to rest against the fast, steady beat of Alex's pulse. 

"This," Alex says, voice thick. "I need this."

But not just--

He leans up and Nicky meets him halfway, their mouths coming together hard and sweet. Alex's heartbeat jumps against the pressure of Nicky's grip. 

Nicky breaks the kiss to drag in a shuddery breath. He presses his forehead against Alex's. "Me, too," he says. "I need, I want -- everything."

"Yes," Alex says. "Yes."

Nicky's always had the most important parts, everything is nothing.


	35. Jason Demers/Adam Burish, rope bondage marks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For this (nsfw) [picture prompt](http://critiquemydickpic.tumblr.com/post/110548169550/heres-another-one-for-you-with-bondage).

Adam hugs him when he gets traded, his hand gripping the back of Jason's neck. 

"You're gonna be great in Dallas," he says. "They're great guys and they're lucky to have you."

Jason's face goes hot and he nods, words getting stuck in his throat.

Adam gets sent down the same day. It's kind of a shitty day.

*

Jason tries. He gets the game winning goal against L.A. in his first game there ( _fuck yeah_ , Adam texts, _thats my boy_ ).

Then they lose four in a row.

They win some and lose some, but they can't seem to claw their way out of the bottom third of the league.

In February, San Jose beats them at home, and it's the start of a six game losing streak. 

After the fifth one, Jason gets drunk and lets himself FaceTime Adam.

(Jason just wants a captain to tell him he's doing a good job, or yell at him and tell him what to do better, but Seguin's out and Benn's trying so hard, Jason can't lay this shit on him. It's not cheating on his team if Adam is in the minors, he tells himself.)

Adam takes one look at his face and starts bitching and moaning about winter, about how soft he got in California. Jason lets it wash over him, that familiar voice and old inside jokes. 

"I feel like I'm drowning," Jason blurts into a pause in the conversation. _Like no matter how hard I try, I can't be what this team needs._

Adam's face goes soft and serious, and Jason closes his eyes.

When he wakes up in the morning, he doesn't remember what Adam said, but he remembers the warm feeling in his chest.

*

Adam sends him a box of rope. 

Jason...does not know what that's supposed to mean.

It's nice looking rope, black and soft, made out of hemp or cotton or something. But still.

_what do u do w the rope?_ he texts Adam.

Adam doesn't reply right away. Jason's almost forgotten about it when his phone buzzes, late at night.

It's a picture, a man's thigh, fine dark hair over powerful muscle, wrapped with red rope, knotted in precise intervals, pressing into the skin.

Jason's stomach swoops and heat shivers over his skin. He is frozen, staring at the screen. His phone buzzes again and he almost drops it.

_it's a meditation thing,_ Adam says. _something physical to keep you focused_

Jason gives Adam's carefully spelled text a dubious frown.

_remember how much we hated the end of yoga that one time?_ Adam asks.

Jason does. It had been a team building thing, trying something new for their workouts. The stretching and the poses had been fine, but he and Adam could not keep a straight face through the meditation part at the end.

_I don't know, this is different,_ Adam says. There's a long pause, and then he adds, _It makes me feel grounded._

_Oh,_ Jason says. _cool_

It looks dumb typed out like that.

_:)_ , Adam sends.

*

The box of rope sits in Jason's living room until their next shitty game.

He's not thinking about it when he gets home, bone-tired and too wound up to sleep. But it's there on the coffee table when he sits down on the couch with a beer.

He drinks his beer and eyes the box. Fuck it. He's going to feel like an idiot trying this, but better that than thinking about that turnover for the rest of the night.

He pushes the coffee table back and sits down on the floor. He sits cross-legged, getting himself comfortable, and then pulls the rope out of the box.

He runs the length of it through his hands. All those knots that Adam did seem a little advanced for him. He loops the rope around the ball of his hand instead, wraps it three or four times around his wrist, tight enough to hold it in place. Tight enough that he can feel it pressing into his skin.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. He is hyper-conscious of the cuff of rope around his wrist, the beat of his pulse against it. He's definitely not thinking about the turnover now.

But he's not succeeding at keeping his mind empty and blank, either, like he's supposed to. He keeps thinking about Adam doing this. He flexes his wrist, feels the strain of the rope, and wonders if it feels the same for Adam, if Adam ties it tighter or looser.

He thinks about Adam's bare thigh in the picture, and he wonders if Adam does it naked. If he does both legs, if he does more than that. His stomach flutters, heat and embarrassment curling through him. He rolls his wrist again, pulling against the rope. If he wanted to put his hands behind his back, it would be hard to tie it tight enough by himself. He wonders if Adam ever has someone help him, if someone showed Adam how to do this in the first place.

He can picture it, Adam kneeling, his hands tied behind his back, his head bent forward, someone's hand (his hand) on the bare nape of Adam's neck.

"Fuck," Jason groans and lets himself flop back onto the carpet. He gets his pants open, gets his dick out. He jerks himself off, the rope brushing against skin on every stroke. He comes so hard his toes curl and his mind fuzzes out, just calm white noise.

He sleeps like a rock that night.

*

Jason and Adam have -- fooled around a little.

Adam kissed him at a Christmas party, under the influence of mistletoe and spiked eggnog, a little too much tongue for a team event. They made out after Game Three against the Kings last season, one win away from the next round of the playoffs, excitement and anticipation humming under his skin like champagne. He pushed Adam up against a wall and kissed him after Game Seven against the Kings, crushing disappointment like ash in his mouth. He only remembers bits and pieces of the rest of that night, doesn't know what else they might have done. They never talk about it.

Adam's his friend, and Jason misses him like a limb, but he's never been someone that Jason thinks about while he's jerking off. 

Until now.

He tells himself it's just the rope thing, some kink he hadn't figured out before. He does some googling, and yeah, he's definitely into the rope thing. But when he jerks off thinking about it, it always ends up about Adam.

He still talks to Adam all the time, texts and FaceTime and twitter. He can't tell if he's making it weird or not. Adam never mentions the rope. Which is good, because Jason has no idea what he'd say. But… Jason kind of wishes he would. The not-talking-about-it feels like this big awkward _thing_ between them. Maybe that's only Jason, though.

At least it gives him something to obsess about other than their season.

March is better than February. They get Seguin back and start stringing together some wins, creep up in the standings a little. Jason knows the chances of them making the playoffs are almost nonexistent, but it's hard to give up that tiny shred of hope. It makes every loss sting that much more.

Winnipeg shuts the door on them in April. They're not even playing each other, the Stars are in San Jose, Jason's first trip back.

They beat the Sharks, at least, but no one's in the mood to go out afterwards. There's an impromptu pity party in Jordie's room and Jason goes back to his own room not quite drunk.

He's missed a text from Adam, _sucks man_.

Jason's feeling shitty about the playoffs, about being back in San Jose again, and he'd really like to think about something else right now.

_show me the rope thing again_ , he says.

He waits, but there's no response. Which is -- Jason doesn't even have the rope with him, can't pretend that's what this is about.

(He has a belt, he thinks, and shivers. He's not thinking about that thin length of leather wrapped around his own wrists.)

Jason sighs and drops his phone on the bed. He strips down to his boxers, washes his face, brushes his teeth.

There's a picture waiting when he picks up his phone again. He sits down on the bed slowly and opens the message.

It's different from last time. Jason can tell Adam's kneeling, his calf folded under his upper leg, his ankle tied to his thigh. The rope isn't knotted, just wrapped in long figure eights around his thigh and calf, tight enough to dig into the muscle.

It sparks a curl of heat in the pit of his stomach. He reaches out almost unconsciously, touches the line of rope in the photo.

_wow_ , Jason says. _does ti hurt?_

_No, pins and needles sometimes after_

Jason looks at the picture again, adjusts himself in his boxers. The rope looks tighter than Jason's ever tried it on himself. The couple of times he played around with it, the rope had left faint red marks that faded in an hour.

_What does it look like after?_ Jason asks.

Adam sends another picture.

It's too fast for him to have actually gotten the rope off and taken the picture, so it must have been one he already had on his phone. Jason feels a twinge of something like disappointment, and a little like jealousy, wondering who Adam took those pictures for, who else Adam's sent them to.

Then he open the picture and his breath comes out in a rush. Adam's leg is stretched out in front of him, rope marks sharp and clear against his skin. Jason desperately wants to know what those marks feel like under his mouth. Adam's dick is visible in the picture, too, lying soft against his upper thigh, and that answers the question of whether he does this naked.

Jason presses the heel of his hand against his own hardening cock for a second, then types in a rush, _do u jerk of when u do that_

_Yes_ , Adam sends, unhesitating.

Fuck. Jason's whole body flushes with heat and want. _me 2,_ he says, then clarifies carefully, _I jerk off thinking about you doing that._

Jason has second thoughts as soon as he sends it. Adam calls him immediately.

"Are you jerking off right now?" Adam asks. His voice is low and rough, but he doesn't sound angry.

"No?" Jason says. He grips his thigh and tries to ignore his hard on.

"Do you want to be?"

Jason exhales. "Yeah," he admits. "Sorry. Is that--"

"Dude, I've been sending you pictures of my naked body in rope bondage, get with the program. Plus, you've seen the goods, it would be weird if you _didn't_ want to jerk off over it."

Jason snorts.

"Okay, it wouldn't actually be weird," Adam says. "But I'd be disappointed."

"Yeah?" Jason says.

"Yeah," Adam says.

There's a moment of quiet, something charged in the sound of their breathing.

"So," Adam says, and Jason can hear the thread of laughter in his voice, can hear the joke coming a mile away. "Are you going to come for me--"

"Shut up, shut up," Jason says. Fuck that nickname, seriously. But he's grinning when he gets his hand on his dick. 

He lets out a shuddery breath, stroking himself fast and rough. He closes his eyes, listens to Adam's breathing, sees those pictures again. "Are you...?"

"Too late," Adam says, almost regretful. "Next time."

"Fuck," Jason says, and comes all over his stomach.

Jason lets himself bask in the afterglow for a minute while he catches his breath. For a second, he's sorry that they didn't figure this out sooner, when they were still on the same team together, but he pushes that thought away. 

"Thanks," Jason says. It's got to be stupidly late for Adam, but Jason feels like he can sleep now.

"Anytime," Adam says, and it's dirty, but warm and affectionate, too.

*

The Wolves clinch a Calder Cup playoff spot the day after the Stars' season ends.

Jason calls Adam. He's planning on leaving a dirty voicemail, but Adam answers the phone. Jason can hear muffled music in the background, the sounds of a locker room celebrating.

"Dude!" Jason says. "Congratulations!"

"Thanks," Adam says. "And, hey, tell Bennie I said congrats, too."

"I will."

"Listen, I've been thinking," Adam says. He takes a deep breath, and Jason waits. "The playoffs are going to be stressful, and..."

"And you need something to keep you grounded," Jason says.

"Someone," Adam says. "I mean. If you want."

"Yeah," Jason says. He's already reaching for his laptop. "I do want."

He wonders if he can bring the rope in his carry-on.


	36. Geno/Ovi, Christmas dick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For this (nsfw) [picture prompt](http://critiquemydickpic.tumblr.com/post/71040343642/ho-ho-ho).

On December 13th, Geno gets a SnapChat from Alex. It consists of a picture of Alex's dick poking out of what appears to be one of those tiny Christmas trees made out of rosemary that they sell at Whole Foods.

The text just says, _Happy First Day of Christmas ))))))_

It's not the first dick pic that Alex has sent him. It's not even the first holiday-themed dick pic.

 _Isn't that prickly?_ Geno sends back.

 _Festive! ))))_ Alex says. _Worth it!_

*

On December 14th, Alex sends him a picture of his balls, cradled in his palm. He's drawn a heart around them, and tiny dots and triangles that Geno interprets after a minute as eyes and beaks.

_Happy Second Day of Christmas )))))_

A few minutes later, Geno gets the dick-in-the-Christmas-tree picture again.

That's when Geno makes the connection between Alex's weirdly festive dick pics and that stupid, endless North American Christmas carol. 

_I will block you,_ he says.

Alex strings together a bunch of hearts and smiley, kissing emojis. 

Geno doesn't block him.

*

The next day, Alex sends him a picture of his dick and balls, all decorated with what seem to be tiny mustaches and possibly hats? There is also a drawing off to the side of something that looks like a tall, skinny A with extra lines in the middle.

Geno stares at it until it disappears. He's not going to ask. But it nags at him all through practice, and he ends up googling the song on his phone in the locker room.

The third day is French hens. 

"What's so funny?" Sid asks.

"Nothing," Geno says, wiping away tears of laughter. "Can't say."

*

On December 24th, Alex sends him:

  * a picture of his dick in a tiny Christmas tree
  * a picture of his balls made to look like tiny birds with a heart around them
  * a picture of his dick and balls decorated like French cartoons
  * two pictures of his balls, this time with the little beaks open and musical notes coming out of them ( _4 calling balls!!!_ Alex helpfully captions)
  * a picture of his dick with five gold foil rings on it
  * six pictures of his dick laying an egg
  * seven pictures of his hard dick emerging from a bubble bath, a little beak and eyes drawn on
  * eight videos of Alex jerking himself off, wearing nail polish and a delicate, glittery ring
  * nine pictures of his dick wearing a skirt made out of what Geno's pretty sure is a cupcake liner, curly hair and a smiley face drawn on the head, little stick arms raised above it like a ballerina (the ninth day was the point where they both realize Alex has fucked up the math, and would get to the twelfth day before December 25th; _LOLOLOLOL,_ Geno sends; _Shut up,_ Alex says)
  * ten pictures of his dick with little stick legs spread wide, little stick arms raised, and wavy lines to indicate movement
  * eleven pictures of Alex holding a kazoo up to his dick
  * twelve pictures of his dick with little arms holding up drumsticks and a frankly terrible drawing of what Geno assumes is a set of drums



It takes forever to get through the last day. Geno's phone starts buzzing with notifications when he's in the kitchen with his mother.

He takes one look at the first one, and switches his phone to silent. 

His mother raises her eyebrows at him.

Geno smooths out his sappy grin. "Just Sasha," he says. "It's not important."

"Hmmm," she says. "Well, those onions aren't going to cut themselves."

"Yes, mama," he says.

*

Early on the morning of the 25th, the roads are almost empty, and it's an easy drive.

Before he leaves, Geno sends Alex the picture he took the night before. He found the boxers when he was doing some last minute Christmas shopping. They're red and shiny, with white trim on the legs and a black waistband that looks like a belt. He jerks himself off until his dick is completely hard, curving up out of the slit in the boxers. He eases his balls out, too. 

It's incredibly cheesy. He sends it with the text, _Merry Christmas HO HO HO_

He's almost there when Alex replies. _I see how it is. I give you 12 days of presents and you just give me 1?_

 _1 big present = lots of little presents,_ Geno says, stopped at a red light.

Alex calls him immediately. 

"Merry Christmas, Sasha," Geno says mildly.

Alex lets out an inarticulate outraged sound.

"You set yourself up for that," Geno says. He rolls down the window and punches in the gate code. 

"I know," Alex says. "I'm really angry at myself."

"You know what will make you feel better? Opening my package."

"What?" Alex says.

Geno turns the car off. "Come down and open your present, Sasha."

Geno hangs up and gets out of the car. He's raising his hand to ring the doorbell when Alex opens the front door.

Alex's face lights up with surprise and happiness, and Geno is suddenly glad he decided to do this.

"Surprise," Geno says.

Alex laughs and grabs him, drags him inside to kiss him breathless in the foyer.

"I thought -- your parents?" Alex says when he pulls back.

"I'll spend New Year's and real Christmas with them, but we have a little time off, and I wanted to spend it with you."

"That's a good gift," Alex says softly. 

Geno shrugs, even Russian words getting stuck in his throat for once. 

Then Alex grins, sharp and wicked. "But I hope you kept the receipt for this," he says, squeezing Geno's dick through his pants.

"You can't return it after you've used it," Geno says.

"But what if it doesn't fit?"

"Sorry," Geno says. "You're stuck with it."

Alex is still grinning. "I guess I can live with that."


	37. Aaron Ekblad/Willie Mitchell/Megan Mitchell, Skype sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For this (nsfw) [picture prompt](http://critiquemydickpic.tumblr.com/post/72813629674/critique-me).

Aaron calls right after he wins the Calder. Meg lets him have his moment with Willie; she figures Aaron's got a lot of demands on his attention right then. She doesn't even tease Willie about his suspiciously wet eyes.

"He'll call back later," Willie says.

"Good," Meg says. "You told him to Skype, right?"

Willie grins. "Yep."

"Good."

It's late when Aaron does call back. Meg and Willie are in bed, the laptop open on Meg's lap, Willie's arm around her shoulders. Aaron looks like he's curled on his side on his hotel bed with his iPad propped up on the mattress. He's shirtless, flushed pink and grinning.

"Whoa, how drunk are you?" Meg teases.

Aaron widens his eyes at her. "Meg," he says, and puts his hand on his chest like he's clutching his pearls. "I'm not old enough to drink in the US."

"Don't remind us, kid," Willie say.

"Congratulations, baby," Meg says. "We're so proud of you."

Aaron's smile gets wider. He doesn't look truly drunk, just a little tipsy. "Thanks, Meg."

"So what do you want as a reward?" Meg asks.

"I want to be there with you guys," he says, a quick, rueful twist to his mouth.

"Us too," Willie says.

"But as a placeholder..." Meg says.

Aaron glances away for a second, then looks back, straight into the camera. "I want to watch," he says, steady, not blushing at all.

"Hmmm," Willie says. He ducks his head, kisses the curve of Meg's shoulder. "What do you want to see?"

Meg catches the tiny hitch in Aaron's breathing. "Anything," he says.

"All right," Meg says. She clears a little space on the nightstand and puts the laptop down, adjusts the angle of the camera. "How's that?"

"Good," Aaron says. "Maybe less clothes?"

"I suppose," Meg says.

She takes off her tank top. She's wearing one of her fancy special occasion bras for this, black lace and a deep plunge, and it's worth it for the way Aaron bites his lip, the expression on his face.

Willie's behind her, and he puts his hands on her waist, leans in to kiss the side of her throat. He brings one hand up to toy with the lacy edge of her bra, a light, delicate touch. Meg turns her head and Willie kisses her mouth, slow and deep. Meg arches her back, and Willie lets his hand slip to the front clasp and pop it open.

Meg breaks the kiss to shrug out of the bra all together. Willie cups her breasts, rubs his thumbs over her nipples, and Meg shivers.

"You too, Willie," Aaron says, a little breathless. "I want to see you, too."

Meg's not going to argue with that. She moves to the side, so the camera can see. Willie waggles his eyebrows at her, then looks back at Aaron. He pulls his t-shirt off in one smooth movement. Meg watches the ripple of muscles in his back and shoulders and presses her thighs together.

Willie reaches for her again and they kiss, less slow, more intent this time. Willie slides his hands down her back to her hips. She sighs into the kiss at the feel of them, broad and strong, against her skin.

Willie lifts her hips, pulls her towards him, and Meg falls backwards with a startled whoop of laughter. Willie tugs her panties down. Meg's still laughing when she manages to kick them the rest of the way off, but she stops when Willie buries his face between her legs.

"Ohhhhh," she sighs, " _damn._ "

The anticipation that's been simmering under her skin all night flares into heat. She clenches one hand in the sheets when Willie flicks his tongue against her clit.

Willie knows her after all these years. He knows she likes a light touch to start with, quick, teasing licks, tongue just barely slipping inside her. Meg grips the back of his head, rolls her hips up against his mouth. He laughs in the back of his throat, spreads her legs wider and licks in deeper. He eats her out until she's panting for breath, until she's soaking wet and her thighs are shaking.

Willie turns his head, presses a kiss against the soft skin of her inner thigh. He rests his chin on her leg and looks over at the laptop.

"How's that?" he asks Aaron. 

" _Fuck_ ," Aaron says. "You guys--"

The heat in her belly coils tighter at the sound of his voice, raw and shaky. She tugs on Willie's hair.

"I want you inside me," she says, when he looks up at her.

Willie's eyes flutter shut for a second. "Yeah, god, yes."

He sits back and wriggles out of his boxers. He's hard, his cock curving back towards his stomach when he's kneeling there, finally naked. He gives himself a couple of easy strokes (showing off a little, she thinks). She kneels up, and he slides his fist to the base of his cock, holding it steady.

Meg swings her knee over his thighs, braces her hands on his shoulders. She gives Aaron a quick, sidelong smile, then lets herself sink down on Willie's cock.

He fills her up, long and thick, and she lets out a deep, satisfied sigh. She slides her arms around his neck and kisses him. She can taste herself on his lips.

She lifts up and sinks back down again, slow and easy. Willie's hands flex on her hips.

"Are you touching yourself, Aaron?" she asks, her eyes still on Willie's face.

Aaron lets out a strangled laugh. "Yeah," he says. 

"Good," Meg says. Her voice comes out breathy around the edges. She's moving faster now, needing more of the heavy drag of Willie's cock inside her.

Willie kisses her collarbone, sucks a bruise into the curve of her breast. He slides his hand between her legs and rubs his thumb against her clit. Meg can't help the noise she makes at the jolt of heat it sends through her.

"Yeah, baby, just like that," Willie says. He strokes her clit again and she clenches down around his cock, orgasm crashing over her like a wave.

Willie groans, too. He grips her thighs and fucks up into her, short, desperate thrusts that send ripples of sensation through her. His whole body tenses, and she can feel him coming inside her.

She feels completely boneless, her muscles utterly limp in the afterglow. She leans into Willie, rests her cheek on his shoulder to look at the laptop. 

Aaron's bumped his iPad and the screen shows his abs, chiseled muscle under pale skin, and his cock, flushed red, shiny with precome. He's jerking himself off, fast and rough, and despite the lazy, satisfied warmth in her muscles, she still feels a twinge of hunger.

"You look so goddamn hot, Eks," Willie says.

Aaron gasps.

"Come on, baby, let us see," Meg says.

Aaron's hand stutters on his dick, and he moans, coming in long pulses across his stomach.

"Good boy," Willie says, and even Meg blushes at the tone of his voice.

For a long moment, there's only the sound of their breathing, quick and uneven.

The image on the screen blurs as Aaron picks up the iPad and rolls onto his back.

"How's that for a reward?" Meg asks.

Aaron smiles, sleepy and dazed. "Pretty good." She can see the tiny flex of Aaron's arm, like he's reaching out to touch the screen. "I still wish I was there."

"Us, too, baby," she says. "Us, too."


	38. Beau Bennett/Paul Martin, wet white t-shirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For this (nsfw) [picture prompt](http://critiquemydickpic.tumblr.com/post/92744268625/my-submission).

When Paul signs with San Jose, a bunch of the guys text or call him to say _congratulations_ or _we'll miss you_.

Beau isn't one of them.

Paul tries not to let it bother him. He thought-- Well, it doesn't matter now.

Then out of the blue, Beau texts him. _west coast best coast,_ he sends, along with a string of sunglass-wearing smiley faces and palm trees. _ur comin out to look at houses & shit right?_

_Yeah,_ Paul says.

_im here all summer let me know when & i'll drive up,_ Beau says. _it's pretty close_

(Paul's googled it. It's a five hour drive with no traffic.)

_Okay,_ he says.

Paul halfway expects that it won't work out, that Beau won't be able or willing to make the drive after all. But Beau shows up for lunch on the last day Paul is in town, just like he said he would.

He's wearing board shorts and a white t-shirt with some faded logo that Paul doesn't recognize. He's tanned and grinning, his hair going blond from the sun. He looks like a stereotype of a California surfer dude, like he wouldn't know which end of a hockey stick to hold. Paul finds himself smiling back almost helplessly.

They eat lunch downtown at a place Pavelski recommended. They talk about summer training and hockey gossip, light and easy.

"Have you been to the beach yet?" Beau asks, when they're done with lunch, standing on the sidewalk.

"No," Paul admits.

"Dude!" Beau says. "You can't come to California and not go to the beach! C'mon, you have to! I'll let you drive."

Beau's grinning at him, and Paul has let himself get far too invested in Beau's happiness to say no.

"All right," he says.

"Yes!" Beau says, and his smile gets brighter.

Paul's heart does a weird little thing in his chest.

The ocean is an hour drive away. They squabble cheerfully over the radio, Beau giving Paul an aggrieved look when Paul stops on a channel playing the Beach Boys.

"Hey, I want the full California experience," Paul says.

Beau rolls his eyes so hard Paul thinks he sprains something. Still, he ends up bobbing his head along to the beat.

"You should learn to surf," he says out of nowhere. "Now that you're a California boy."

Paul laughs, mostly at the thought of his skinny Minnesotan ass on a surfboard.

"You've got the balance for it," Beau says. "And the core strength."

Paul gives him a sidelong glance, but he seems earnest. 

Paul clears his throat. "Maybe."

He reconsiders as soon as the first wave rushes up over his bare feet. "God _damn_ , that's cold!"

Beau's waded out a little further, not quite up to his knees in the surf. He grins back over his shoulder at Paul. "Aren't you from Minnesota?"

"Yeah, and we stay out of the lakes when they're this cold."

Beau scoffs. He kicks a delicate spray of water at Paul.

Paul looks down at his now-damp khakis, then back at Beau. He gives Beau his best unimpressed, "don't fuck with my goalie" look, takes a deliberate step forward.

Beau's eyes widen and he dances backwards, hands up. "No, no, I'm sorry, I take it ba--"

Paul doesn't even have to do anything. Beau trips and goes down with a flailing splash.

He flounders back up, soaking wet, sputtering like an outraged cat, and Paul doubles over laughing.

"Ugh," Beau says. He pushes his wet hair back off his forehead, his t-shirt plastered to the clean lines of his abs and pecs.

Paul's breath catches and he looks away. "Serves you right," he says archly, then tactically withdraws before Beau figures out he's got nothing to lose now.

They don't have dry clothes or towels, and the beach is cooling off fast in the last of the afternoon light. Paul takes pity on Beau shivering in the passenger seat and pulls in to the closest hotel, big and anonymous, the kind of place that Paul knows from years of road trips will have washers and dryers for guests to use.

"You don't have to," Beau says.

Paul's the one rolling his eyes now. "I know. Don't worry, I can afford it."

"Okay, thanks, big spender." Beau's trying for light, but it falls flat, like he doesn't want to think about Paul's new contract.

Beau heads straight for the bathroom when they get to their room.

Paul flips through the guest information binder until he finds the laundry section, rummages up some loose quarters and dollar bills. When he hears the shower come on, he sticks his head in the bathroom.

"Hey," he says, and the rest of his words die in his throat.

Beau is standing in the middle of the bathroom, half-naked. His shorts and boxers are in a damp pile on the floor. He's still wearing his wet t-shirt, frozen in the middle of gripping the hem. It clings to his body, his nipples pressing hard and tight against the wet fabric. The head of his cock peaks out below the hem, almost vulnerable.

Paul drags his gaze back to Beau's face. Beau's watching him, his eyes wide and dark.

He meets Paul's eyes. He licks his lips and pulls the t-shirt off in one move.

Paul can't look away. His heartbeat stutters, speeds up. Beau walks forward and Paul tries not to stare at his tan lines, at the pale skin of his hips and thighs, at his cock.

Beau stops, close enough to touch. For the first time all day, his face is serious, unsmiling. "We're not teammates anymore," Beau says.

It squeezes all the air out of Paul's chest. "I didn't think you remembered that," Paul says blankly, the first though that comes out of the chaos of his head.

Beau's steady gaze falters and he looks away. "I didn't think you wanted me to."

Paul's always believed that it's easier to deal with other people's problems than to worry about the shit in your own life you can't control -- your cold streak, your nagging injury, your contract situation. Beau was miserable after Bortz's trade, and Paul remembered what that first trade is like, the one where it's not just a teammate, but your best friend on the team. It was an easy decision to try and cheer Beau up.

Paul gently badgered him into cleaning his apartment, into cooking for himself, into hanging out with the rest of the team more often. It's nothing he didn't do for Nealer, for Olli when he was up with the Pens, but Beau got under his skin. Paul got invested in making Beau happy.

It took him awhile to notice the way something in his chest went warm and soft when Beau was laughing at team dinners again, when Beau called him to say, "Oh shit, my chicken parm is a disaster, please help!"

When the Blues finally came to town, Beau spent the whole day before the game with Bortz. 

After the game, Beau showed up on Paul's doorstep already half-drunk. Paul sighed and let him in, let him drink whiskey and diet coke on his couch until Beau was curled up on his side with his head in Paul's lap.

"It's just, it sucks so much," Beau said.

"I know," Paul said, because he did. He pets his fingers through Beau's hair. "But you guys will stay in touch, and you'll see him when we play each other, and over the summer as much as you want."

Beau rubbed his cheek against Paul's thigh. "It's not the same."

"Yeah," Paul said gently. "I know."

Beau rolled over onto his back and looked up at him. "You're so good to me, Paulie."

Paul could feel his face heat. He made himself smile, made himself say lightly, "Yeah, well, someone should be."

Beau gave him a look of intense concentration, then sat up. He braced his hand on Paul's shoulder and Paul still had no idea what's coming until Beau kissed him. 

It was clumsy and sloppy but achingly sweet, and it took Paul a minute to pull his mouth away. "Hey, no, we can't," he said.

Beau frowned. "Why not?"

Paul's mouth tingled from the press of Beau's lips, his face hot, something like longing twisting in his stomach.

There were so many reasons -- because Beau is too drunk, because Paul is too old -- but he picked the one Beau won't be able to talk his way around. "Because we're teammates."

Beau's frown got deeper. "But--"

"It will fuck with the team dynamic. Even if you don't dump me for someone your own age after a week--" Beau opened his mouth and Paul just kept going. "--it will make other people uncomfortable, and that will reflect badly on us. We're professionals, and we have to act like it."

He watched Beau think it through.

"But it's not--" Beau said, in a tiny voice. "It's not because you don't want me."

Paul should have lied, it would have been easier for both of them, but he couldn't. He shook his head. "If thing were different," he said.

And now things are different.

Paul takes that last step forward and kisses Beau. 

Beau gasps into it. His mouth tastes like saltwater and he kisses back fierce and desperate, pressing his whole body against Paul's. 

"I was so pissed when you signed with San Jose," Beau says, raw and breathless between kisses, "that you left me."

"Ahhh, fuck, Sunshine," Paul says.

He turns Beau and grips his waist, lifts him up onto the counter. Beau lets out a startled laugh. He wraps his legs around Paul's waist and pulls him in closer.

Paul slides his hands down the warm, smooth muscle of Beau's back as they kiss. Beau tugs impatiently at Paul's shirt, and Paul leans back enough to pull it off. He can hear a button ping off the tile, but he doesn't even care. Beau loops his arms around Paul's shoulders, chasing Paul's mouth.

Paul slips his hand between them and palms Beau's cock. He can feel the hitch in Beau's breathing, the way Beau gets harder under his touch. Beau fumbles with the zipper of Paul's khakis, eases Paul's cock out.

Paul's been hard since he walked into the bathroom and saw Beau. He sucks in a breath at the confident slide of Beau's hand on him. He flicks a quick glance over the contents of the bathroom counter and grabs the tiny bottle of lotion. 

"Here, like this," he says. He pours some into his palm and wraps his slick hand around both of their cocks.

"Oh, shit," Beau says. He squirms, trying to push up into Paul's hand, and kisses him again. His hand is tight on the back of Paul's neck, his mouth wet and hot against Paul's. 

Paul drags his fist down the length of their cocks. His grip is a little awkward, the rhythm not as smooth as if he were jerking himself off, but he loves the feel of Beau's cock against his, the velvety softness of his skin, the beat of Beau's pulse, the wetness leaking down over his fingers already.

Paul twists his wrist and rubs his palm over the head of Beau's cock. Beau groans and breaks the kiss, looking down at Paul's hand moving between them.

"Fuck, Paulie," Beau says.

"Mm-hmmm," Paul murmurs back, tightening his grip and speeding up his strokes.

Beau's panting now, his thighs tensing around Paul's waist. Paul presses the corner of his thumb against Beau's slit and Beau comes with a moan, warm pulses against Paul's stomach, over his hand. Beau slumps forward to rest his forehead on Paul's shoulder. 

Paul lets go of Beau's cock and concentrates on his own, jerking himself off fast and rough.

Beau reaches down to run his fingers over the head of Paul's cock. "C'mon, Paulie," he whispers, and kisses the side of Paul's throat.

Paul doesn't know if it's the touch or the kiss that pushes him over the edge. He can feel Beau's smug, pleased smile against his neck while he struggles to catch his breath.

Beau rubs his fingers through the come on Paul's stomach. "I guess we both need a shower now."

"Good thing we've got the room for the whole night," Paul says, and he can feel Beau's smile get bigger.


	39. Jamie/Tyler, "hey, it's just me"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For this (nsfw) [picture prompt](http://critiquemydickpic.tumblr.com/post/80726702903/my-dick-picthree-pictures-at-an-exhibition) and this [first kiss](http://7iris.tumblr.com/post/128235517137/omg-i-saw-this-prompt-and-totally-thought-of-your) prompt.

In retrospect, it's unbelievably obvious. But when Jamie first meets Tyler, he thinks he really only wants Tyler to like him because Tyler's a cool guy, a great hockey player. He and Jamie are going to be the face of the franchise for the next ten years -- if they're lucky - -and it would suck if they weren't friends, too.

And Tyler is easy to like, outgoing and hilarious and just -- fun to be around. Jamie always wants to find reasons to be around him. He hipchecks Tyler in practice between drills, pokes him with his stick, leans over the boards to chirp him, all so Tyler will laugh and bump him back. He invites Tyler over for dinner, invites him to carpool with him and Jordie to the rink. 

Tyler says yes all the time. And Jamie says yes whenever Tyler asks him to come out with the guys. Jamie's way more comfortable with his teammates than he is with the press, but he's still not someone who loves the club scene. Most of the time he'd rather just go home, sack out on the couch with a beer, and ice his bruises, but he can't say no to Tyler.

"Someone's got a cruuuush," Jordie whispers in a sing-song voice, when Jamie agrees to go out after the game.

"Shut up," Jamie hisses back. Jordie's just giving him shit, but Jamie suddenly realizes it feels like a crush. Wanting Tyler's attention and approval, that warm, happy glow he gets when he makes Tyler laugh. It's not the same as crushing on a girl, though -- he doesn't want to _fuck_ Tyler.

(His eyes slide over to Tyler, stripped to the waist, flushed and sweaty and laughing. Jamie's face burns, and he yanks his gaze away.)

*

Jamie knows Tyler is gay, because Tyler told him, right after Jamie was officially named captain.

"It's-- I didn't handle it in, um, the best way in Boston, and I want to do it right here." Tyler's voice is steady but he's lost that cheerful, cocky attitude. "I'm not coming out publicly any time soon, but I told Nill and Ruff, and now you because you're my captain."

"Okay," Jamie says blankly. He thought talking to the media was going to be the heaviest thing he'd have to deal with as captain right off the bat. He's never played with a gay guy before, as far as he knows, but he knows the right words, and he's relieved that they come out easy when he opens his mouth. "Thanks for telling me. It's not going to be a problem. And if someone tries to make it a problem, tell me and I'll deal with it."

Some tension that Jamie hadn't even noticed goes out of Tyler's shoulders, and he smiles at Jamie. "Thanks."

*

Once he starts thinking about it, it's like poking a bruise, like walking up to the very edge of a cliff and leaning over.

Jamie can't stop looking at Tyler, in the locker room, by the pool on the California road trip, dancing in a club, and he feels himself blush, feels his stomach swoop and flutter. Feels the edge of the cliff under his feet crumble just a little more.

He thinks, _I don't want to fuck him._ But more and more it's followed by doubt. _Do I?_

He tries to picture Tyler on his knees for him, and his heart pounds, a wave of scalding heat rushing over his skin. He can't make himself finish the thought, can't even make himself look at Tyler the next day.

Sometimes when he looks, he sees Tyler looking back. Sometimes he's afraid of what Tyler might see.

*

When their post-season ends, Tyler shows up at Jamie's door with a bag of weed. Jamie sighs and lets him in.

Jordie is at his girlfriend's place, so it's just the two of them. They crack the window in Jamie's room and sit on his bed. Jamie watches Tyler roll a joint with his quick, long fingers.

"The first rule of the post-playoff pity party," Tyler says, "is don't talk about hockey."

He lights the joint, takes a deep drag, and falls back onto the mattress, holding the hand with the joint straight up in the air. Jamie takes it.

"What do we talk about?" he asks. He pulls smoke into his lungs, holds his breath until it burns.

Tyler shrugs, makes a vague, expansive gesture. "The meaning of life."

"I thought you said no talking about hockey."

Tyler laughs and Jamie feels it in his gut, that warm thrill.

Tyler holds out his hand. Jamie gives him back the joint and stretches out to lie next to him on the bed.

He doesn't remember what they talk about. He's too focused on Tyler lying in his bed, their shoulders brushing as they pass the joint back and forth. He smooths his palm over the sheets, and thinks about touching Tyler's bare skin, his palm sliding over the lines of Tyler's ink, the ripples of his abs. His whole body shivers and he can't tell if it's fear or want or, or…

"How did you know you were gay?" he blurts out.

Tyler snorts. "I dunno, how did you know you were straight?"

That's the problem, isn't it? Jamie bites his lip and blinks hard at the ceiling.

"Wait," Tyler says into the awkward pause. He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at Jamie's face. "Really? Are you…?"

"I guess I just always assumed I was straight," Jamie says. "But."

Tyler's expression is surprisingly gentle. Jamie looks at his mouth and pictures, with heart-stopping clarity, Tyler leaning down to kiss him.

Jamie looks away, presses the heels of his hands against his closed eyes. "Sorry, I don't know what I'm talking about, it's just the pot."

Tyler's quiet for a moment. Then he lies back down. "So what are you doing this summer?"

The tight feeling in Jamie's chest eases.

*

In the morning, Tyler makes a huge batch of scrambled eggs and whole wheat toast, and they make small talk about the weather and travel plans.

Tyler hugs him before he leaves. "Hey, you know you can always call me or text me this summer if you need to talk. About -- anything."

Jamie has to clear his throat before he can say, "Yeah. Thanks."

*

In the back of his mind, Jamie expects the whole crush situation to go away over the summer, once he's not spending every waking minute around Tyler.

But as soon as he sees Tyler at the charity golf thing, he knows he was wrong. He smiles so hard his face hurts, and his chest just fills up with happiness.

Tyler's grinning back just as wide, at least. They check in with the organizers, and then find their hotel rooms, right next to each other.

"So," Tyler says. "Nap and then dinner?"

"Yeah," Jamie says. "Sounds good."

Jamie kicks his shoes off, takes a piss, washes his hands and face. He lies down, but he's too antsy to sleep. He dicks around on his phone for a little bit, then decides, Fuck it, he's just going to see if Tyler's awake yet.

The connecting door is unlocked.

Tyler is definitely awake.

Jamie freezes in the doorway. His heart stutters and then starts pounding.

Tyler's flat on his back in bed, one hand thrown up above his head, the other moving fast and rough on his hard cock.

The headboard is against the adjoining wall, and Tyler's reflected back at Jamie in the mirrored closest doors. Jamie can hear Tyler's ragged breathing, the slick skin-on-skin sound of his hand stroking over his cock. The muscles of his stomach and thighs are sharply defined, pulled tight by the tension in Tyler's body. It's everything Jamie has always been too afraid to let himself think about.

Hot, fierce, terrifying _want_ hits Jamie like punch in the gut. He can't move, can't look away.

Tyler opens his eyes, meets Jamie's gaze in the mirror. He doesn't look surprised.

"Jamie," he says, low and hoarse.

"Fuck," Jamie says.

Tyler's eyes fall shut and his hips buck up. He comes with a sharp gasp, his cock jerking in his grip, shooting all over his stomach and chest.

Jamie should-- he doesn't know what he should do. Something. Turn around and walk away, or go to Tyler. But he can't move either way.

"Wow," Tyler says, laughing a little. He grabs a tissue off the nightstand and cleans himself up, pulls his boxers on.

He walks towards Jamie, stops just close enough to touch, if Jamie reached out.

Tyler searches his face. "I was thinking about you," he says.

"Oh," Jamie says, barely audible.

Tyler gives him a small, hopeful smile. "Can I kiss you?"

Jamie swallows, nods.

Tyler steps closer, and Jamie tenses.

"Hey," Tyler says. He's still smiling. "It's just me. Relax."

It's like being on the ice with him that first time. Tyler is always moving so fast, speed that leaves Jamie breathless, but he's always exactly where Jamie needs him to be.

Jamie leans in, and Tyler presses their mouths together, soft and and gentle. Jamie feels it all the way down to his toes.

"Ohhh," he breathes.

Tyler grins. "Yeah," he says. "Exactly."


	40. Sid/Flower/Lovejoy, stick control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because my first thought after that whole [Flower-getting-high-sticked thing](http://www.cbssports.com/nhl/eye-on-hockey/25370678/watch-marc-andre-fleury-cut-by-teammates-stick-through-mask) was "I hope Sid had Lovejoy make it up to Flower."

The fear is worse than the pain, in that first split second when it happens. Flower drops forward, his head on his blocker hand. Pain flares hot and sharp across his cheekbone, his eye socket, and he's bleeding, he can feel it. All that's going through his mind is, _Fuck, please, not the eye._

Distantly, he can hear the roar of the crowd, the shouting of his teammates and the Habs in front of the goal, the refs trying to break things up. He can't make himself open his eyes, afraid of what he'll see -- or won't see.

"Oh shit oh shit oh shit, Flower, I'm sorry--" Lovejoy is saying.

_Suck it up,_ Flower thinks viciously to himself, and opens his eyes. He can see just fine, and relief makes him dizzy for a second.

"Are you--" Lovejoy says, and Flower pushes to his feet, waves him off sharply, mostly pissed at Lovejoy for scaring him like that.

The anger is gone by the time he gets back on the ice. He gets his stitches, and he gets the shootout win, and by the time everything is done, he can laugh about it. High-sticked by his own d-man, on par for the season for them so far.

Once he's out of his equipment, the trainers take him aside to clean up the bleeding and reseal the cut, give him an ice pack for the swelling.

Sid comes into the exam room as Mike is leaving. He's sweaty and rumpled and has his displeased captain face on, eyebrows drawn together, mouth pressed flat and unhappy.

"Can I see?" Sid asks.

Flower lowers the ice pack. Sid comes to stand between his knees where he's sitting on the exam table. He touches Flower's chin, tilts his head to see the cut better. His fingers are warm and rough on Flower's skin. 

"It's nothing," Flower says. "Just a few stitches like a dumb forward."

Sid's frown gets deeper.

"Are you going to kiss it better?" Flower asks, when Sid doesn't let go of his chin.

Sid huffs out a breath and his expression softens. He leans in and presses the lightest of kisses to Flower's cheekbone, next to the stitches.

For a second, the dull throb of pain in his face actually subsides. Flower doesn't realize he's closed his eyes until Sid pulls back. 

"Wait here," Sid says firmly, and walks out.

Flower blinks. "Okay, sure!" he yells after him. 

He gives Sid a minute or two, but honestly, he'd just like to get this whole night over with. He slides off the exam table, but before he can even put his flip-flops back on, the door opens.

It's Lovejoy, with Sid behind him. 

Ben looks absolutely stricken. Sid gives him a firm nudge into the room and shuts the door behind them.

Flower raises his eyebrows at both of them. 

"Shit, I'm so sorry, Flower," Ben says in a rush. "It was an accident, I should have been more careful. Are you okay?"

He looks so unhappy that Flower can't even be mad. "I'm fine, it's all right. These things happen, eh?"

Sid has crossed the room to hop up on the exam table behind Flower. He tugs on the back of Flower's t-shirt, pulling him back a step so Flower is standing between his spread thighs. Flower shoots him a dubious look over his shoulder, but he lets Sid man-handle him.

"Ben wants to make it up to you," Sid says. He rests his hands on Flower's hips. "Right, Ben?"

Ben licks his lips, nods quickly. Flower's on the verge of rolling his eyes when Ben drops to his knees in front of him. Flower takes a sharp breath, and a sudden rush of heat spills through his gut.

"Sid," Flower says.

"Let him," Sid says in his ear, in his terribly accented French. "He'll feel bad if you say no."

Flower snorts, but he looks down at Ben's earnest face and-- Well, if it's to make his teammate feel better.

He runs his hand through Ben's hair and says, "All right."

Ben smiles up at him. He pulls Flower's Under Armour down, easing it over Flower's cock. Flower's half-hard already -- it _was_ a win, after all.

Ben grips his cock, gives him a few light, easy strokes before he leans in and rubs the head of Flower's cock against his lips. Flower shivers, makes an encouraging noise, and Sid hums in his ear. 

Sid has his chin hooked over Flower's shoulder, watching Ben's face. Ben's careful, gentle, his mouth all soft, wet, heat around Flower's cock. He takes Flower deeper into his mouth until his lips press against the edge of his fist, wrapped around the base of Flower's cock. It's not quite enough, but Flower doesn't let himself squirm.

Ben makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat, and then he _sucks_. Flower gasps. His hips jerk, but Sid's grip holds him still, stops him from shoving deeper into Ben's throat. 

There's nothing tentative about Ben's mouth anymore. Flower digs his fingers into Sid's thigh instead of grabbing Ben's hair. 

"Ben's going to show more stick-awareness around the net from now on," Sid says solemnly. 

Flower lets out a breathless laugh. Ben glances up at his face, his eyes crinkling up like he's grinning around Flower's dick. Then he lets go of Flower's cock and swallows him all the way down.

Flower swears viciously in French. Sid squeezes his hips, presses a kiss to the side of his throat. Flower's thighs are shaking, the muscles of his stomach clenched tight, as heat coils up his spine. 

Ben pulls back and Flower whines at the loss of his mouth. "Sid," he says, voice hoarse. "I can, you can let him--"

"You sure?" Sid asks.

Ben nods. 

"Okay," Sid says, and his grip on Flower's hips loosens. 

It takes Flower a second to get it. But Sid doesn't hold him back when he rocks his hips forward this time, lets him fuck into Ben's mouth. It only takes a couple thrusts before he's coming, that sudden dazzling snap of tension catching him by surprise. He barely manages to pull back enough not to choke Ben, coming all over his open mouth and flushed cheeks.

The buzzing rush of orgasm makes his knees weak and he slumps back against Sid's solid bulk. Sid wraps his arms loosely around Flower's waist. 

"Sid," Ben says shakily. "Can I--"

"Hmmm," Sid says, dragging it out. 

In French, Flower says, "He apologized well enough."

"All right," Sid says. "Go ahead."

With a relieved exhale, Ben drops his head forward to rest against Flower's thigh and slides his hand into his sweats. He jerks himself off fast and rough, coming with a muffled curse.

Ben takes a few more shuddery breaths, then sits back on his heels. He wipes his hand on his sweats, then pulls the hem of his t-shirt up to wipe Flower's come off his face. He looks up at them both.

"I really am sorry," he says. 

"I know," Flower says. "It's okay."

Ben climbs a little stiffly to his feet, gives them a shy smile, and slips out of the room.

Flower leans his head back against Sid's shoulder. "Thanks for the goal," he says.

Sid turns his head and kisses Flower's cheek, incredibly gentle. "Thanks for the saves," he says. 

Just like always.


	41. Eichel/McDavid, vampire AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from bleep0bleep's [Fic Prompt Generator](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/promptsnsfw):  
> Setting: College/University || Genre: Fix-It || Trope: Vampires || Prompt: Sex standing up (including against a wall) || Kink: Panties

Connor fucking McDavid is waiting in his room when Jack stumbles back to the dorm at three in the morning.

He stops, the door slamming behind him. Connor's just sitting on his bed in the dark, barely enough light coming in through the window for Jack to see him. Jack turns the lights on, and Connor blinks at him in the bright fluorescent glare.

"Don't you need an invitation to be in here?" Jack asks.

"Your roommate let me in," Connor says.

Fucking Johnny.

"He says to tell you he's going to stay over at Rachel's place," Connor adds.

Jack snorts. "So what do you want?"

Connor licks his lips. "My hand's still fucked up."

"Yeah, I heard. That's why you leave the punching to other people, smart guy."

"It's been a month. They said six weeks at the beginning, but now they're saying even longer. I can't -- I need to play."

Maybe it's just the lighting, but Connor does look bad, his skin washed out, his eyes bruised and dark.

"What do you want me to do about it?" Jack asks.

"If I could feed on someone, I'd heal right away."

Jack's stomach swoops and his heart jumps, a shiver of fear and something like fascination under his skin. "Why don't you ask your buddy Stromer to do it?"

"I can't, I've already taken too much from him this season. And you're the only other person who's not my family who knows."

World Juniors was a fucked up experience all around, is all Jack will say about that.

"Uh-huh. How is this my problem? Why would I ever let you feed on me?"

Connor glances away for a second, and when he looks back that aw-shucks, good Canadian boy vibe is gone, and there's something sharp and cocky in his eyes.

"Because if you go first, you'll always wonder if it was just because I was out for two whole months."

It's anger, not fear, this time that jolts through Jack's stomach. He smiles and it's all teeth. "I'd still go first."

"But you'd always wonder. The media would always wonder. There'd always be a little asterisk next to your name: probably should have gone second."

Jack stares at him for a long moment. Connor stares back, a tiny smirk on his mouth like he knows exactly what Jack's thinking. He can probably smell it on him.

Connor shrugs, elaborately casual. "But if you need that edge...."

"Fine," Jack snarls. He takes his coat off with sharp, jerky movements, throws it on Johhny's bed. He's wearing a sweatshirt under it and he pulls that off over his head with one movement.

Connor sucks in a sharp breath. "What are you wearing?"

Jack freezes. He had honestly, right until that moment, forgotten what he was wearing under his jeans.

Look, college is weird, okay? There's a shit ton of hazing when you're a freshman and an athlete, and the thong is the least of it. But it's not something he wants to explain to Connor McDavid.

"Nothing," he snaps. He yanks his t-shirt back down, covering up that sliver of skin where the panties have ridden up over the waistband of his jeans, black lace and hot pink satin. He can feel himself turning red.

Connor's staring at Jack's stomach. The smirk's gone now, and his eyes seem wider and darker when he looks up at Jack.

He stands up, and Jack takes a step back despite himself. Connor closes the distance between them in a rush, faster than Jack can follow, then Connor's hand is on his chest and his back is slamming into the wall.

Jack grunts, and his heartbeat jumps.

"It doesn't look like nothing," Connor says, suddenly way too close. He's a couple inches shorter than Jack, but the weight of his hand on Jack's chest feels immovable. 

Connor slides two fingers of his other hand, his bad hand, under the edge of the panties, tugging them further up Jack's hip to get a better look. It drags the fabric against Jack's dick, pulls the thong tighter between his ass cheeks, and Jack tries not to squirm.

Connor rubs his thumb over the lace, then over Jack's skin. His fingers are cool but they leave a trail of heat in their wake.

"It's just a joke," Jack says, and his voice comes out rough around the edges. 

Connor pops the button on Jack's fly open, and Jack stops breathing. He should stop this. He's pretty sure Connor would back off if Jack told him, too. But he can't quite bring himself to move.

Connor tugs his zipper down, peeling his jeans open, until the panties are completely visible, stretched over Jack's soft dick.

Connor drags his eyes back up to meet Jack's. "It doesn't look like a joke," he says, very low.

Jack shivers all over and remembers to breathe. Connor ducks his head and presses his face against Jack's throat, inhales deeply.

Jack's toes curl at the feel of Connor's lips brushing against his skin. Connor's still holding him in place. His fingers trace over the edge of the panties, where they cut across Jack's stomach, just above his dick. 

Jack is hyper-conscious of that delicate touch, of the feeling of the satin and lace against his cock and balls. He can feel himself start to get hard, a thread of heat coiling through his belly.

"Have you ever hooked up with a vampire before?" Connor asks.

"No," Jack says. "But this isn't--you're just going to bite me."

"I mean, yeah, but biting is..." Connor trails off.

"Is what?" Jack says.

Connor focuses on him again, grins suddenly. "It's fucking awesome. And if you're thinking about sex, it feels like sex."

"And, what, you're thinking about sex right now?" Jack says. He means for it to come out snarky, but his voice isn't quite steady enough for that.

Connor looks down again. He lets his hand dip lower, slides the back of his knuckles over the front of the panties, over Jack's cock. Jack's hips jerk, and he bites down on a gasp.

"Oh, yeah," Connor says. "You still up for it?"

Connor gets that teasing, needling tone exactly right.

"Just do it," Jack snaps.

Connor flashes him another grin. He takes his hand off Jack's chest, moves it to the back of Jack's thigh. Jack has a moment where he has no idea what Connor's trying to do, and then Connor lifts him, sliding him up the wall.

 _Fuck,_ Connor's strong. Jack brings his knees up without really thinking about it, grips Connor's hips with his thighs to steady himself. His throat is level with Connor's mouth now.

Connor bites him. It hurts, for one shocking heartbeat, and then the pain just slides over into heat, into a wave of shuddering pleasure. Jack's head falls back and he groans. It feels like Connor's power is stroking him from the inside, somehow, lush, velvety heat rubbing against his skin. He's all the way hard now. His dick strains against the satin and lace of the panties, and Jack thinks vaguely about reaching down and adjusting himself, but the idea skitters away under the hot, wet suction of Connor's mouth. 

He's breathing harsh and fast, one hand clutching the back of Connor's head. Connor's rocking his hips into Jack where they're pressed together. He's hard, too.

Connor shudders and goes rigid. He drags his mouth away from the bite, and Jack makes a furious, desperate noise. He's so close.

Connor hums, licks at the slowing trickle of blood on Jack's neck, and that sends another wash of heat through him. Then Connor's hand slides between them. He rubs his fingertips over the head of Jack's cock where it pokes up above the lace of the panties. Jack hisses in a sharp breath, tries to flex his hips up into that touch.

Connor is playing with the fabric of the panties, rubbing it against Jack's dick. It's agony.

"Fucking just--" Jack snarls, and Connor raises his eyebrows. 

He looks smug and self-satisfied, and Jack's blood is all over his mouth and chin.

Jack slaps his hand over Connor's and presses Connor's palm against his aching cock. His mouth falls open at how good the pressure feels. He grinds against Connor's hand. Connor lets him, slides his mouth over the bite on his throat again, almost a kiss, and Jack comes in a stomach-clenching rush.

Jack blinks the grey fuzzy stars away from his eyes. Connor's still holding him up against the wall, which good, because Jack feels like all his muscles have been transformed into jello. 

Connor's smiling, but orgasm has mellowed Jack, because he doesn't think it looks that smug. 

"Awesome, right?" Connor says.

"Eh," Jack says. It was pretty awesome.

His legs have somehow gotten themselves wrapped completely around Connor's waist, and he unfolds them, gets his feet under him again.

His come is all over Connor's hand, and Connor wipes it off on Jack's shirt.

Jack makes a half-hearted noise of protest, but really, it can't make him any messier. He tugs at the ruined panties and hopes no one's expecting to get these back.

Connor still has his hand on Jack's hip, and Jack doesn't really understand why until he tries to take a step towards the bed, and suddenly feels woozy. 

Connor braces him, half-carries him to the bed. "How much did you take?" Jack asks, flopping onto his back.

Connor pulls Jack's shoes off. "Not that much. You'll be fine in the morning. Just remember to hydrate."

Jack yawns. "Did it work?"

Connor makes a fist, then spreads his fingers wide. "Oh, yeah."

He looks down at Jack. He slides one finger under the elastic of the thong and lets it snap back against Jack's skin.

"Ow," Jack says.

"You should take those off before it dries on you."

Jack makes a face and starts trying to wiggle out of his jeans. Connor snorts and yanks his jeans and the panties off in one movement. 

Jack blinks, startled.

Connor drops his jeans on the floor, gives Jack that smirk again. "See you at the Draft. Thanks for the top up."

Jack swallows back the _anytime_ that rises to the tip of his tongue for no good reason. He flips Connor off instead.

The last thing he hears before he falls asleep is Connor laughing on his way out the door.


	42. Aaron Ekblad/Willie Mitchell/Megan Mitchell, a/b/o AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from bleep0bleep's [Random Prompt Generator](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/promptsnsfw):  
> Setting: Locker room || Genre: Fluff || Trope: a/b/o dynamics || Prompt: One character worrying anxiously about another || Kink: Comeplay

Willie laughs about it sometimes, how much things have changed. How an omega like him went 199th overall in the draft, and twenty years later, an omega like Aaron goes number one.

Things are different now from Willie was coming up, better. Anyone who says different doesn't know what they're talking about.

*

Willie schedules his mid-season heat for the All Star weekend break, when Aaron will be in Columbus.

"It's hard on the body," Willie says with a laugh. "Especially once you get as old and banged up as I am. You wanna make sure you've got time to recover."

They've aired the house out by the time he gets back from Columbus, of course, but Aaron likes to think he can still pick up the last lingering traces of their heat-scent, rich and warm, when he walks past their bedroom. Willie is more loose and mellow than Aaron has seen him since the start of the season, and Meg looks deeply calm and centered and just a tiny bit smug. 

When Willie hugs him hello, Meg's scent is stronger on his skin, and the scent of their bond is brighter, fresher.

Aaron tries not to let those mingled scents play a role in his jerk-off fantasies, but he can't help it.

The trainers are right, he should schedule a heat, get all of this out of his system.

*

There's no reason for it, nothing about the game or the players or the phase of the moon that should trigger it. Just too many hormones and too much time since his last heat.

He doesn't even realize it at first. He feels like he does at the end of any good game, hot, sweaty, amped up. Even that curl of arousal in the pit of his stomach is familiar, like he's ready to fuck or dance or just drink.

But it doesn't go away and he doesn't cool down like usual. He gets distracted by the feel of the hot water sliding down his skin in the shower, and it takes Nick chirping him to get him to snap out of it, turn the water off. Jagr and Lu both look up, frowning, when he walks back into the dressing room, towel around his waist. 

Aaron pulls a pair of boxers on. The room is full of chatter and it just washes over him, meaningless noise. His skin feels tight and hot.

"Hey, kid, are you all right?" Willie asks.

Aaron blinks. He doesn't know how long he's been sitting there with his socks in his hand, but the room is a lot quieter. He takes a deep breath and Willie's scent fills his nose, heavy and familiar. He smells like home, like pack, like he always does, but this time it makes that heat under his skin flare bright and vivid, makes his dick jump.

Oh. "No," Aaron says. "I don't think so?"

Willie leans in like he's trying to catch Aaron's scent, and his eyebrows go up. "Okay, hang on."

Willie clears the room out discreetly. He says something to Lu before Lu goes, and Lu glances at Aaron and nods.

Aaron stays sitting down, his hands clasped and pressed between his knees, so he doesn't try to rub that heat off his skin. He's all the way hard now, and he can feel himself getting wet, too, that empty longing hollowing him out.

Willie sits down next to him. He puts his hand against Aaron's forehead for a moment, like he's checking Aaron's temperature. "This is unexpected, huh?"

Aaron nods. Willie's hand felt so good against his skin. Aaron lets himself lean into Willie's side, and feels a little steadier.

One of the team doctors comes in. "Hi, Aaron," she says. "Roberto said you weren't feeling good. Is it okay if I check you out?"

"Yeah," Aaron says.

Willie stands up, and Aaron's thoughts scatter, that steadiness disappearing into aimless heat. He doesn't like it. "No, wait."

Willie hesitates, then sits back down next to him. Aaron shifts a tiny bit, so their hips and thighs are pressed together, and he feels grounded again. The heat still burns under his skin, but he doesn't feel like he's drowning in it.

Dr. Ortiz doesn't say anything about Willie staying, just checks Aaron's temperature and pupils and asks him some questions from what sounds like the concussion protocol.

"Hmmm," she says. She peels open one of the disposable pHeromone(TM) strips and tucks it under Aaron's tongue for a minute.

The indicator square has turned bright pink when she pulls it out. "Well," she says. "He's definitely in heat."

"But he's still on suppressants," Willie says. He's frowning. His hand is on Aaron's back now, his thumb rubbing soothing arcs over Aaron's burning skin. 

"I know," Dr. Ortiz says. "It's probably going to be a little more intense than usual if the suppressants failed, but this does happen. Do you have someone you want us to call, Aaron?"

"No," Aaron says.

"Well, you can stay overnight here, we have an emergency heat kit, or Baptist Health has rooms for unscheduled heats, we can see if one is available. Or--"

"I just want to go home," Aaron says.

"Are you sure?" Willie asks.

He is.

He doesn't remember the ride home. Pants were too much of an effort, but Willie at least got him to put on a hoodie, so he's not completely naked when he gets into the house. 

"Oh, honey," Meg says. She's sitting at the kitchen island and she hops up as soon as they come in from the garage. She takes a step towards him, and then stops.

Aaron feels a pang of disappointment. Her scent is clean and sharp, cutting through the heat haze, and he wants her to touch him, wants her to rub that scent all over him.

Willie nudges him in the small of the back, and Aaron starts walking again, up to his room.

"Did you order anything from that site I showed you?" Willie asks.

"Yeah," Aaron says. "Um. In the closet."

Willie goes to the closet while Aaron struggles to get the hoodie off. He's clumsy and uncoordinated, his skin too sensitive. 

Willie puts the box with the toys on the bed, and then helps Aaron get the sweatshirt the rest of the way off.

"There," he says. "Do you need anything else?"

 _Meg's knot,_ Aaron wants to say. _Your hands._ But he swallows that back and shakes his head.

Willie scrubs a hand through Aaron's hair. "It's going to be okay. It sucks, but it's going to be okay. Yell if you need us."

Aaron nods.

Then Willie is gone and it's just Aaron and the toys.

He's so hard it hurts, so wet and open he's making a mess of the sheets, but the suppressants must still be doing something, because he can't come.

He gets close, so close it's unbearable, his whole body strung tight and shaking, but then the tension eases and he drops back into that aching, unsatisfied longing.

His last heat, over the summer, he jerked off for what felt like twenty-four hours straight, and came so many times he was practically dehydrated by the end. It wasn't like this.

The next wave ebbs, and no matter how hard he strokes himself, how he twist the plug inside him, he can't get back to the edge, can't go over.

He groans. He pulls the plug out and throws it at the wall. 

There's a tap on the door. "Can I come in, kid?" Willie asks.

Aaron takes a deep breath. He has to clear his throat before he can say, "Yeah."

Willie comes in with a bottle of Gatorade.

It doesn't do anything for the heat, but it makes his mouth and throat less dry.

"Thanks," Aaron says. He lies back down after he finishes the bottle.

"How you doing?"

Aaron shakes his head. Tears of frustration prickle against his eyelids and he turns his head away so Willie can't see.

Willie sighs. "Biology sucks, huh?"

Aaron nods. Willie combs Aaron's sweaty hair back off his forehead. Aaron's breath catches in his throat, and he turns into the touch, rolls over onto his side to face Willie. Willie takes his hand back, and Aaron whimpers in the back of his throat.

"No, please, could you--" He cuts himself off. The heat doesn't leave a lot of room for shame or embarrassment, but this is his captain.

But Willie doesn't go. He reaches out, slides his finger through Aaron's hair again. "This?" Willie says.

Aaron nods, his eyes falling shut. It feels so good, Willie's touch, his scent. Aaron rolls onto his stomach, grinds his hips against the mattress, and this time, oh, this time it's enough. He comes, his body clenching down around nothing.

It doesn't feel good, exactly, and the heat doesn't break, but it eases, and Aaron can float on those endorphins for a little while. 

*

"He's having a miserable time of it, isn't he?" Meg says quietly. She sounds worried, unhappy, and Aaron doesn't want that. 

The heat twists inside him, rising again as he slowly wakes up. 

"Yeah," Willie says. Willie's still touching him, his hand just resting on Aaron's shoulder.

The back of Meg's hand touches his forehead for a moment and Aaron sighs. It feels like too much work to open his eyes.

"You know I'd be okay with it if you wanted to help him break his heat," Willie says.

Aaron's heart stutters.

Meg doesn't say anything for a long moment. "If I knotted him, we would bond," she says finally. "I can't do casual with him. We can't. If it weren't for your suppressants, he would have triggered your heat by now."

"Would that be so bad?" Willie says.

"It is if he doesn't have a choice," Meg says tartly.

Aaron clears his throat. "I'm okay with it," he says.

They look at him. 

"You'd be okay with Jagr bonding you at this point," Meg says. "Your judgment is suspect."

"No, I wouldn't," Aaron says, but even as the words are leaving his mouth his body has a very positive reaction to the idea of Jagr knotting him.

Meg gives him a pointed look.

Aaron grins sheepishly. His eyes fall shut as the next wave of heat and want rolls over him. It doesn't have the frantic, out-of-control edge that it did when he was alone.

The mattress dips as Meg sits down. She runs her hand down his back. "Maybe the scent of an alpha would help. I can stay, if you want."

"Please, it's better when you're here." He makes himself open his eyes, look at Willie, too. "Both of you."

Meg rubs the base of his spine and he arches his back with a gasp, suddenly aware of how slick and open he still is.

"Which do you want?" Willie says. 

Aaron shakes his head. "Anything."

"Okay," Meg says. "I'll pick."

She rummages through the box and lifts out a knotting dildo, not the biggest one, but longer and thicker than the plug. Aaron's whole body shivers in anticipation.

"Roll over on your back," Meg says, and Aaron struggles to obey.

He ends up with his shoulder pressed against Willie's hip, his thighs spread wide, heels drawn up. His cock arches back against his belly, flushed dark, leaving smears of precome on his abs.

Meg kneels between his legs and looks down at him. Her eyes are very dark, and her scent is stronger, sharper than before. Aaron drags in a shaky breath and it's like he can taste them both, the air is so heavy with their scents.

Meg slides the dildo inside him with one long, smooth stroke. Aaron moans, his hips pushing up off the bed. Meg fucks him once, twice, and then he's coming all over his stomach.

He's still hard, though, and that hot, shuddering tension only pulls tighter. 

Willie swipes his hand through Aaron's come and wraps his slick palm around Aaron's cock. 

Meg sinks the dildo into him again and leaves it there, the knot just pushing at the rim of his hole. She rubs Aaron's come into his skin. It's an alpha's possessive gesture, even if it's his come, not hers, and some ancient part of Aaron's brain recognizes it, shudders and offers his throat up.

Meg pushes the knot into him. 

Aaron drags in a huge breath. The room is full of the scent of all three of them now, mixed together. He's all over their hands, and they're all over him. It's like everything just slots into place, he feels grounded, held steady under them, and he can feel the heat break even before he comes.

Everything goes white. It feels endless, a long, slow crashing wave that washes that desperation and burning out of his system, leaving cool peace in its wake. He breathes through it, harsh panting finally slowing down, evening out. He feels completely boneless, exhausted, calm in a satisfied, floaty way. 

Willie gets up and Aaron makes a tiny, protesting noise.

"Shhh," Meg says, petting his thigh. "He'll be right back."

Willie comes back with a warm washcloth and starts wiping down Aaron's abs and cock, gentle and careful. He hands it to Meg, and she eases the dildo out of him, then wipes his thighs and ass down.

She gives the washcloth back to Willie, and he leaves again.

She strokes his hair. "Do you want to stay with us, or be by yourself?" she asks.

"With you," Aaron says, barely above a whisper.

"Okay," she says.

Willie comes back with another bottle of Gatorade. Aaron drinks half of it, and Meg and Willie split the rest.

"Come on," Meg says, getting up. "Our sheet are cleaner."

He leans on Willie the rest of the way to their bedroom. Their sheets smell like them, and he sighs, breathing deep.

They take turns getting ready for bed, and they're both naked when they slide into bed with him, one on either side. 

It's like the touch of their bare skin was all he was waiting for, and he falls asleep like his brain flipped a switch.

*

When he wakes up in the morning, the sheets smell like him, too.


	43. Carts/Richie, Sentinel AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from bleep0bleep's [Random Prompt Generator](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/promptsnsfw)
> 
> Setting: Roadside Motel || Genre: undefined || Trope: Sentinels and Guides || Prompt: All our friends mistakenly think we're doing it || Kink: Oral fixation or fetishization

Jeff's not a great Guide. He's got the aptitude, but not the training, because he always wanted hockey more.

It's okay, Mike's not a great Sentinel.

"Shut up," Jeff says. He's gripping Mike's knee, heavy enough that Mike can feel it through his gear. Jeff rubs his thumb in slow arcs against the side of Mike's knee, not back and forth, just one direction. "Turn it down, you know how to do it, turn it down."

Mike focuses on the pressure of Jeff's hand, imagines pulling his senses back in with every sweep of his thumb. The roar of the crowd fades, becomes background noise, the glare from the ice dims and becomes bearable.

Sharpy's giving them the side-eye, but it doesn't matter, it worked. Coach slaps his shoulder and Mike goes over the boards for his next shift like nothing happened.

*

The hotels the AHL stays in are a step above a roadside motel, but it's not a big step.

The carpet feels scratchy under Mike's feet and the chemical reek of laundry detergent and cleaning solution makes his nose and the back of his throat burn. He tries to turn his senses down, but he can't focus enough.

The months in LA before Jeff got traded sucked. They still weren't as bad as getting sent down to Manch.

It's not so bad at first. The anger helps him focus, keeps him sharp. But he can't stay angry forever.

Now he feels like he's always a step behind on the ice, the noise and the glare making his head ring, slowing him down. Nothing tastes right or smells right. He hasn't zoned out yet, but it's probably just a matter of time. It's been going on for a while now, since last season really, his control of senses slipping. He doesn't know if it's the chronic pain or the concussions, but it's worse without Jeff there.

He'd never admit it, but he has the Kings schedule bookmarked, so he always knows how far away Jeff is. So he can know how long it would take Jeff to get to him if he ever called.

The knock on the door sounds too loud, and he flinches.

He takes a deep breath through his mouth, and opens the door.

It's Jeff, and he sags a little with relief. Turns out, his guess on timing was spot on.

Jeff eyes him for a long moment, then pushes past him without saying anything. He looks around the room, frowning.

"Thanks for coming," Mike says. He pulled rank, kicking his roommate out for the night, so it's just them.

Jeff transfers that frown to him, shakes his head. "What's wrong?"

"Everything," Mike says.

He means for it to be a joke, but it's a little too close to the truth.

Jeff drops the duffle bag he's carrying at the foot of the bed. He eyes the bed for a moment, lip curled, and then pulls the covers off, tossing them over the chair by the window.

He looks at Mike. "Did you bring your sheets and your pillow?"

Mike is already the bigshot whose career is flaming out. He's not going to be the prissy bigshot who's too good for AHL hotel sheets, too. "No."

"How about your speakers?"

Mike shakes his head.

"Goddamnit, Richie," Jeff says. He opens up his bag and pulls out a bundle of cloth, tosses it to Mike. "Lie down on the bed."

Mike shakes the cloth out. It's a tube of silk, the size and shape of a sleeping bag, and it smells like home, like the unscented detergent Jeff always buys. Mike spreads it out on the bed.

Jeff's pulled his portable bluetooth speakers out of the bag, too, and is fiddling with his phone. The speakers hiss to life with the sound of Mike's usual white noise generator app.

It blurs away the sound of the TV in the rooms on either side of him, the rattle of the ice machine at the end of the hall, the dull roar of the interstate just past the hotel parking lot. Mike feels some of the tension in his shoulders loosen as he lets the white noise fill his head up. It gives his senses something soothing and meaningless to focus on, instead of trying to track the endless noise of the hotel.

Jeff steps closer to Mike, sniffs at his shoulder. "What detergent are you using?"

"I don't know, Tide something," Mike says.

Jeff's frown gets deeper.

"I couldn't remember the name of the stuff you usually buy," Mike admits. "It's not a big deal."

Jeff shakes his head, but all he says is, "Take your t-shirt off and lie down."

Mike does. The fabric of the sleep sack Jeff brought feels amazing against his skin, cool and smooth and soft, so much better than the t-shirt he was wearing. He sighs and rubs his cheek against it.

"How's your back?" Jeff asks.

"Hurts," Mike says.

It's the worst thing about the senses, how he can't turn down the pain in his own body. Oxy's the only thing he's found that makes the pain go a away for a while. That, and Jeff's hands.

Jeff puts his hands on Mike's back, warm and broad. He digs his thumbs into the pressure points on either side Mike's spine, and the hot, dull pain that's knotted Mike's back up all day starts to fade.

Mike groans.

Jeff clicks his tongue and moves his fingers to the base of Mike's skull. Mike hadn't even noticed the headache until it disappears. He feels limp and boneless, that relentless grind of pain subsiding into something manageable, ignorable.

"So what did you tell Sutter?" Mike asks, voice low and slurred.

"That I needed to come see you," Jeff says.

Mike snorts. "What did he think about that?"

Jeff makes a sharp little noise that's almost a laugh. "Probably what everybody's been thinking for years, that we're fucking."

Mike's breath stutters. He'd always wondered what the rest of the guys thought about their weird co-dependency, but he's never asked. 

Jeff gets up and gets a bottle of water out his bag. This isn't the kind of place that has a minibar.

Mike rolls over onto his back, and looks at Jeff. Jeff looks tired, his anger gone, or maybe just worn down into something dull and pointless.

He understands why everyone thinks they're fucking. The things Jeff does for him don't make any sense if they're not. Sometimes, even knowing the truth, Mike doesn't understand why Jeff does all of it. 

Jeff takes a sip of water and Mike watches the flex of his throat as he swallows, the wet, pink shine of his mouth as he takes the bottle away.

Mike hasn't hooked up with anyone since he started losing control of his senses again. He's afraid the senses will spike or he'll zone out in front of a stranger. Now, watching Jeff's lips curl around the mouth of the water bottle, the shape of his words, he's remembering how Jeff and him used to pick up girls together when they were rookies, before his control got better. The memory sends a shiver of heat through his gut.

"Hey," Jeff says. "Come back."

Mike blinks. He hasn't zoned out, but it's close, that rapt feeling. 

On impulse, Mike leans up and brushes his mouth over Jeff's. It's the lightest of touches, but it's a tidal wave of sensation. Jeff's lips are chapped from the cold air of the rink, and the dryness catches at his own. The prickle of Jeff's stubble makes the skin around his mouth tingle. 

Jeff's breath catches as Mike pulls back. His eyes are open, wide and uncertain.

"Richie--" he breathes.

"Shhh," Mike says. "Please, I need--"

He doesn't know what he needs. He wants to feel Jeff's lips again, wants to taste Jeff's mouth. It makes the pain subside, makes the raw noise of the senses fade, to focus on this one thing. Mike does it again, and it's the same rush of sensation, but he can catalog the tiniest differences in the angle, the shiver of Jeff's breath.

Mike flicks his tongue over Jeff's lower lip, and the contrast between his chapped lip and the soft, slick skin just inside it takes up his whole attention. 

"Richie, what are you doing?"

"C'mon, you're not so off your game that you don't remember what making out is?" Mike says. He brushes their mouths together again, to feel that slide of skin on delicate skin. God, he'd forgotten how sensitive lips are.

"Fine," Jeff says. " _Why_ are you doing it?"

"Because it feels good." Mike doesn't want to think about, doesn't want to have this conversation. He traces the seam of Jeff's lips with his tongue. "Doesn't it feel good?"

Jeff opens his mouth, maybe to answer, and Mike licks into his mouth. It's almost overwhelming, the hot, slick feel of Jeff's mouth, the taste of him, familiar somehow, almost like his scent.

"Please," he says against Jeff's mouth. "Nothing feels good anymore."

"Goddamnit, Richie," Jeff says, soft, but he doesn't argue anymore.

Mike sinks into it, into the feeling of Jeff's lips and stubble. Jeff doesn't push him, doesn't try to control the kiss. He lets his tongue slide against Mike's and Mike shudders all over at the sensation. Mike bites Jeff's lower lip, just to feel the give of it between his teeth, another kind of sensation. He sinks his teeth in too hard, and Jeff's blood wells up between them, hot and salty and metallic.

Jeff makes a tiny noise, and Mike eases up immediately. He licks over the bite, the taste of the blood and the feel of Jeff's lips mingling together. 

Mike grips Jeff's t-shirt and pulls, and Jeff follows him down, until Mike is lying on his back and Jeff is curled over him. Jeff braces his hand next to Mike's head, holds his weight off of him, so only their mouths are touching. There's a sharp twist in his chest, anger and gratitude both, that Jeff knows without asking the press of his body against Mike's would be too much. 

His fingers dig into Jeff's shoulder, and Jeff lifts his head. His eyes are dark and dazed, his lips shiny and soft and red, and Mike's anger dissolves. 

Mike tugs on Jeff's shoulder and Jeff slides their mouths together again, gentle, gentle. Mike sighs. Everything, all the pain, all the frustration, is dissolving into the feel of Jeff's lips, his scent, his taste.

Mike closes his eyes, and the world becomes nothing but their kiss.

*

It's an hour or so before Mike has to get up, when he opens his eyes again. Mike hasn't sleep that well in months, and his senses are calm. The speakers are still there, white noise filling the room, but it's Mike's phone connected now, not Jeff's.

Jeff is gone. 

It's what Mike was expecting. Jeff's got a game tomorrow and there's only so much slack Sutter will cut him. Mike's still disappointed.

But there's a text from Jeff waiting when he picks up his phone. _i'll mail you the fuckin detergent_

Mike smiles and closes his eyes again. 


	44. Nicklas Backstrom/Alexander Ovechkin, spy AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from bleep0bleep's [Fic Prompt Generator](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/prompts).
> 
> Setting: Coffee shop or cafe || Genre: Pining || Trope: Spies || Prompt: Body swap

Nicky has a forgettable face, which is part of what makes him such a wonderful spy.

(Alex thinks Nicky's face is entirely unforgettable, but he acknowledges that the general public, with their unrefined taste, would just see a pleasant, smiling waiter or office drone, part of the background to their life.)

Alex's face is somewhat more distinctive, which is why he is usual the one whispering sweet nothings in Nicky's ear over the comms, waiting for the chance to come to Nicky's rescue, guns blazing.

(Nicky almost never needs rescuing. He is really a wonderful spy.)

But in this particular case, they need Alex's distinctive face and Nicky's fluency in Swedish. 

So the Agency has them swap.

*

Alex studies his face in the men's room mirror. It's still his, familiar missing tooth, unfamiliar grey in his hair. He waggles his eyebrows, pulls a silly face.

"I promise, I will bring it back just the same," Nicky says.

Alex meets his eyes in the mirror, gives Nicky an exaggerated dubious expression, and Nicky rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Come on, they're ready," he says.

Alex follows him down the hallway to the lab, with it's harsh fluorescent lighting and grubby linoleum tile.

It's been a while since they've swapped, so they need to reopen the bond. Alex sits at the bare, stainless steel table across from Nicky and lets the technicians attach electrodes to his head. He ignores their fussing, keeps his eyes on Nicky's, calm and steady.

"Activating the channel in three...two...one..."

There is a sensation almost like falling, and the world reverses itself. Alex is sitting across from his own body now. He flexes Nicky's hands, rolls his shoulders, trying to get comfortable in this new body.

"Backstrom, say something in Swedish," one of the techs says.

Nicky says something. From his very dry tone and the couple of words he does recognize, Alex guesses it's something obscene.

"Well, really, there's no need for that," the tech says.

Nicky smiles at Alex. It's his own face, but it's not quite his smile. Alex never knows how that works.

*

Nicky takes Alex's body to the first meeting at the coffee shop.

Alex is in the office building across the street, listening in with the directional mic. Laich has discreetly hacked into the coffee shops security camera so they can watch, too.

Nicky orders an espresso in a ("Terrible, Nicky, terrible") imitation of Alex's Russian accent, and sits down at a table in the back, his back to the wall.

They are waiting for members of a Swedish right-wing nationalist group who want to buy guns from one of Alex's old identities, a small time weapons dealer. 

It's a simple mission: find out the details of their planned attack, draw out the leaders of the group, arrest everyone before any innocent civilians are hurt. 

Alex watches two men with shaved heads and leather jackets come up and sit down in front of Nicky. They use his old identity's name, and Nicky nods his head.

Alex doesn't understand the rest of the conversation. It's in Swedish. Johansson is listening intently, scribbling notes, and Alex has to restrain himself from poking him and ask what's going on. 

By the end of the conversation, everyone is smiling, including Johansson. 

The two men leave, and Nicky starts gathering his things. 

"Good?" Alex asks Johansson.

Johansson nods, opens his mouth to say something, and someone in the coffee shop says, "Sasha?"

Alex's eyes snap to the monitors. He can't see who spoke, but the voice sounds familiar.

"Alex?" Nicky says, under his breath.

"Switch," Alex says, even though Nicky isn't wearing an earpiece, can't hear him.

But he pushes, and Nicky pulls, and the world shivers around him.

Alex blinks at the exposed brick wall of the coffee shop interior, shifts his jaw back and forth to pop his ears. 

"Sasha!" 

Alex turns around. "Dima!" he says, and he doesn't have to pretend to be surprised.

Dmitri Sukhotin smiles at him, but it doesn't reach his hard grey eyes. Then again, his smiles never did.

"What are you doing here?" Sukhotin asks.

"Working," Alex says.

"I thought you quit the business," Sukhotin says.

"I needed a break," Alex says.

Sukhotin's smile fades. He reaches out, squeezes Alex's shoulder. "I heard about Masha. I'm sorry."

Alex looks down, nods.

"Good to see you back, then," Sukhotin says.

"But what are _you_ doing here?" Alex asks.

"Oh," Sukhotin says vaguely, "a vacation. More pleasant weather, you know?"

"Ah, yes," Alex says. "Well, I have to..."

He waves a hand towards the door. 

"Of course, of course," Sukhotin says. He smiles and nods, they shake hands and exchange back slaps.

Alex picks up the jacket Nicky was wearing and walks out. His back itches, and he doesn't go to the office building where the other agents are. He gets on the bus instead, heading back towards this identity's apartment.

He feels the push of Nicky in his head and reaches back, lets their minds slide past each other again again.

Laich and Johansson are packing up the equipment with practiced efficiency. Alex rubs Nicky's temple. Switching this much is giving him a headache.

"He knew you?" Johansson asks.

Alex half-shakes his head. "He knew that identity, Alexander Pavlovich."

"Do you think it's a coincidence?" Laich asks, picking up their bag of gear. 

Alex hesitates. "I don't know."

It's probably not good either way.

*

As far as Alex knows, Maria is alive and well, somewhere in deep cover in Siberia. 

(He knows the Agency wouldn't tell him if she weren't, but he thinks he'd hear it from office gossip.)

Maria had been his backup when he had been Alexander Pavlovich, undercover as his fiancee. Then the Agency's priorities had shifted, and she had been reassigned. They'd killed her cover identity in a staged car crash, and it had been an excuse for Alex to disappear for a while without burning that identity.

She had been a wonderful agent to be fake-engaged to, and Alex still misses her sense of humor and her ability to drink petty criminals under the table.

Nicky had told him from the start not to get attached to another agent, not to believe in their cover story too deeply, but it had been too late.

Of course, Maria wasn't the one Alex fell in love with.

*

He knows Nicky's apartment like he knows his own, where the tea and sugar are, which drawer sticks if you don't pull it out just right. He keeps waiting for Nicky to show up, though.

In Nicky's bathroom, Alex stares at Nicky's face in the mirror. He waggles his eyebrows up and down, scrunches Nicky's nose up. 

It's weird, as always. He sighs and looks away from the mirror while he brushes Nicky's teeth.

He takes a discreet survey of Nicky's body before he goes to bed. No new bruises or scars, and Nicky's hip feels good, no pain or stiffness. Which is what Nicky's been saying for months, but he can't always trust Nicky to tell the truth about that. 

Nicky's sheets are clean, because Nicky is the kind of person who would change them before he swaps with someone. Alex lies on his back and breathes slow and steady, listens to the sound of Nicky's heartbeat.

The thing no one tells you about swapping is the dreamsharing. Or maybe no one else experiences it.

Alex is in a coffee shop. It looks like the one they were in today, but his mother's tea set is on the table and the view out the front window is of deep forest. Nicky sits down across from him. He looks like himself.

"Yours or mine?" Nicky asks.

"Little of both, I think," Alex says. "Everything okay? My body not give you problem?"

"Well, you're not as young as you used to be, but..." NIcky says.

Alex gives him a wounded look. 

"Everything is fine," Nicky says.

Alex feels that itch between his shoulder blades again, that uneasiness of seeing Sukhotin again, here of all places. "Maybe this is bad idea."

"The mission?" Nicky asks.

"I think we miss something," Alex says.

"We are always missing something," Nicky says, his face serious now. "But we have a job to do."

It's true, of course. There's always a job to do, and it's always dangerous. 

"Be careful," Alex says.

"I will," Nicky says. "I promise."

Alex can feel the dream start to waver around them, and he shakes off his anxiety, reaches for a joke.

"Show my body a good time," he says, and before the dream ends, he is delighted to see Nicky blush bright red.

*

Burakovsky, Wilson, and Latta have the day shift. Alex is assigned to track down Sukhotin, see if he can figure out what he's doing in Malmo. 

He comes up dry.

None of Alex's sources in the Russian expat community have heard anything, and neither have any of their Swedish sources. If Sukhotin is still in Malmo, he's not doing business. Or he's working with people the Agency doesn't know about, which is not a comfortable thought.

*

Alex stops by the equipment room after his latest debrief. The Brookses have their heads bent together over a field laptop, and they look up in unison when Alex opens the door.

"Nicky's fine," Laich says.

Alex puts his hands up. "Maybe I want ask about mission," he says.

"The mission's fine," Orpik says.

Laich takes pity on him. "They wanted to see some merchandise samples, and Nicky turned into an invitation to meet someone higher up the food chain. We're ahead of schedule."

"Good," Alex says. "Good."

The sooner this is over, the better.

*

It's mid-morning by the time Alex gets back to Nicky's apartment, another night lost to listening for gossip in disreputable bars. None of it was relevant to Sukhotin or Nicky's mission, but there were still some interesting things to pass on that the Agency want to hear about in tedious detail.

Alex turns the shower on as hot as it will go, and has to bite back a groan at the feeling of the hot water beating down on his shoulders.

He regrets that joke about Nicky showing his body a good time now, because he can't stop thinking about Nicky actually doing it. There's a curl of heat low in the pit of his stomach, a tug of longing, and he turns the tap over to cold. 

He wants to show Nicky's body a good time, but only if Nicky is there, too.

*

The dream feels wrong. Blurry, somehow, disorienting. Alex turns to look for Nicky and everything spins. 

Nicky is sitting down on something dark and indistinct, his head in his hands.

"Nicky?" Alex says.

Nicky lifts his head. "Alex," he says, and his voice is hoarse. "Something is wrong. I fucked up."

"Shit, Nicky--" Alex takes a step forward, but the dream is already dissolving around him. 

Alex wakes up with a gasp. He doesn't recognize Nicky's apartment for a second, his heart beating too fast.

He scrambles out of bed, digs his cell phone out of his jeans. It's barely noon. 

The day shift is young, but they're not dumb enough to leave their cell phones on while they're working. He calls Orpik.

"The mission is fine, Ovi," Orpik says when he answers.

"Really?" Alex says.

He doesn't know what his voice sounds like, but Orpik hesitates. "Yeah. Last check-in was an hour ago and nothing was reported."

"With Nicky or with day shift?" Alex asks. He puts the phone on speaker and starts pulling on his clothes, shoves his feet into his shoes.

"With the day shift," Orpik says. "Why? What's--"

"Where?"

"At the Pavlovich apartment," Orpik says.

"Okay, thanks," Alex says.

"Alex! God da--"

Alex hangs up. 

He takes Nicky's car keys, hanging neatly next to the door, drives his tiny car over to the apartment they're using for this identity. He parks behind the building across the street. There's a little old lady coming out the back door with her wheeled grocery cart, and Alex bounds up to hold the door for her.

She gives him a suspicious look, and he gives her Nicky's best angelic smile. 

Then he slips inside and runs for the stairs. 

He pounds on the door of the apartment they're using for surveillance. Latta opens it, and Alex pushes his way inside.

"What--"

"Something's wrong," Alex says.

Burakovsky and Wilson are getting to their feet, startled and confused. 

"Everything's--" Latta starts.

"Where's Nicky?"

"He, um, he went out for coffee at eight, came back at eight thirty, and hasn't left the apartment since," Wilson says.

"We haven't heard or seen anything," Latta says.

Alex grabs the binoculars out of Burakovsky's hand, studies the window of the apartment across the street. The blinds are half-down, but they can see the whole living room.

Almost the whole living room. They can't see the front door, though, or the door to the bedroom. 

There's a low, steady stream of Swedish coming from the mic. "What's that?" Alex asks.

"Radio," Burakovsky says. 

"It's been on all morning," Latta says.

"You hear anything else? Toilet, phone, Nicky tell you to fuck off?" Alex asks.

They look at each other for a moment. "No," Latta says.

Alex swears in Russian. "Stay here," he says to Burakovsky. "You, you, come with me."

Latta and Wilson are tense now, silent. Alex takes the stairs down two at a time. Wilson has the key to Nicky's building, and he lets them in.

The front door to the apartment is unlocked, not completely closed. 

Alex draws his sidearm.

"Nicky?" he calls. There's no response, only the cheerful babble of the radio.

The living room and the kitchenette are empty. So is Nicky's bedroom. The sheets are rumpled, covers half on the floor, but there's no sign of a struggle.

"Oh, shit," Wilson says. "We didn't hear--"

"Drugs," Alex says. It would explain the feel of the dream, if they drugged his coffee and then carried him out when it kicked in.

"Are you saying someone took him?" Latta asks.

Alex ignores him. 

"Where?" Wilson asks.

That's the question, isn't it? He can see Nicky's burner phone on the nightstand next to the bed, so they can't use that to track him. 

Alex takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He pushes, but there's no answering pull down the channel between them. Alex throws his mind open wide, reaches hard for the feel of his own body. It's there, faint and distant, but not directly in front of him. He pivots on his heel, slowly, until the channel feels straight and clear, slightly stronger, then opens his eyes. 

He doesn't know exactly where Nicky is, but he knows which way he's facing.

"The docks," he says. "Come on."

*

Burakovsky calls it in. 

Chimera, Niskanen, and Holtby are already in position by the time Alex gets to the dock, Latta and Wilson trailing behind him.

"Easy guess," Chimera says. "The warehouse that is not actually busy in the middle of the day."

The windows are papered over, but they've secured the rooftop next to it, and Alex can see down through the skylights.

They've got Nicky tied to a chair in the middle of the room. Sukhotin is standing in front of him.

Laich hands over the earpiece for the directional mic, and Alex can hear what he's saying.

"--and everyone knows you're corrupt to the core, Sasha. I can't let you walk away from this now. But it will be much more painless for you if you answer my questions. Who told you I would be here?"

Nicky lifts his head. He's grinning like the situation is hilarious. "I can't understand what you're saying," he says.

It's one of the few sentences Alex knows in Swedish. 

Sukhotin snarls and backhands him across the face. Alex winces. There goes his nose again. Chimera touches his shoulder, and Alex realizes he's clenched his hands into fists.

Sukhotin turns away. He says something in Swedish to the skinheads that Nicky had been dealing with. They say something back, sharp, angry.

Alex gives the mic back to someone who can understand what's happening. 

Sukhotin holds out his hand, and one of the Swedes gives him a knife. 

Everything in Alex's head goes cold and quiet and still, and then a lot of things happen at once.

Holtby fires a smoke grenade through the skylight. Sukhotin whips back around, lunges for Nicky, and Nicky pushes himself backwards in the chair.

Alex lifts his jacket up in front of his face and throws himself through the broken pane of the skylight, landing on the catwalk beneath. He stays low, running towards the stairs down. Chimera and Niskanen are behind him. 

The warehouse fills up with smoke and yelling and gunfire. 

All Alex cares about is getting to Nicky. He stumbles over Sukhotin's body, ends up on his knees next to Nicky.

He can see the handle of the knife sticking up under Nicky's ribs. 

" _Fuck,_ " he says. He yanks off his jacket and tosses it aside, pulls off his t-shirt.

"Don't touch it," Nicky says.

"I know that," Alex snaps. He leaves the knife alone, presses the t-shirt around it and holds it in place.

Nicky's eyes are closed and Alex thinks his skin looks way too pale.

If Alex's body dies with Nicky in it, then Alex will be stuck in Nicky's body. But worse, Nicky will die, too.

"Switch, Nicky," he says. He pushes down the channel again, but Nicky pushes back, refusing the transfer. 

"You stubborn motherfucker--"

"It's my fault," Nicky says. His voice is getting softer, weaker. "I can't let you..."

Alex's chest feels like it's being crushed. There are tears on his face and it's only partly because of the smoke.

"Nicky, don't you fucking--"

"Sorry," Nicky breathes.

A paramedic shoves Alex aside. There's a frenzy of activity of around Nicky, throughout the warehouse behind him, people shouting in Swedish and English and possibly French. 

Alex barely hears any of it. He watches them take Nicky away, and wonders if he will even feel it if his body dies without him.

He pushes to his feet, stumbles after the paramedics. 

He gets to the ambulance, catches the door before it closes.

One of the paramedics gives him a baffled, angry look, but hauls him inside.

The ambulance pulls out in a squeal of tires and sirens.

"We--" Alex says, and has to stop to cough violently. "We are swapped."

The paramedic's eyes widen. He exchanges a flurry of rapid fire Swedish with the woman hooking up Nicky's IV.

Alex slumps back against the side of the ambulance, and the first paramedic hands him an oxygen mask. He says something that Alex doesn't understand, and Alex shrugs.

There is a team waiting at the hospital to take Nicky. Another doctor grabs Alex's elbow. 

"You can switch before or after surgery," he says. "Not during, do you understand?"

"Before," Alex says. 

"He isn't stable, there is the risk--"

"Before," Alex says, unhesitating.

There is a tech already pulling the electrodes out. Alex sits there and watches them take Nicky away. Another tech is trotting alongside, putting the electrodes on Nicky's temples.

They stop just before the doors to the surgery. 

"Now," someone says, and the world shifts around him, and goes black.

*

When he wakes up, his body is full of that warm, dull, floaty feeling that means he will be in a lot of pain later. At least his beeps sound good.

Someone is holding his hand. Well, not exactly, more like someone's hand is resting very gently against the side of his, the one that has the IV in it.

He turns his head and sees Nicky asleep in the chair next to his bed. 

"Hey," Alex says, or tries to. It comes out as just a rasp of air.

Nicky startles awake anyway.

His face is soft and unguarded with sleep, and the warm squeeze of Alex's heart has nothing to do with drugs or injuries.

"You son of a bitch," Nicky says, but he sounds more tired than angry.

Alex smiles at him. "You always say, don't get attached."

Nicky's mouth twists. "Yes, fine, I am a hypocrite."

"Good," Alex says. His eyes are drifting shut despite himself. He manages to hook his little finger over Nicky's. "I don't listen to you either."

He hears the soft huff of Nicky's laugh, feels the softest, lightest press of Nicky's mouth against the back of his wrist.

He wants to feel Nicky's mouth everywhere on him, but that can wait. They have time.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] PK/Carey - College AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2393117) by [knight_tracer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knight_tracer/pseuds/knight_tracer)
  * [four jamie/tyler tumblr podficlets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4030675) by [kalakirya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalakirya/pseuds/kalakirya)




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